New Hope, Indiana
by Cicatrick
Summary: OT: 1950s AU. Han/Leia. On his 24th birthday, a rootless handyman makes an impulsive choice to help a cheerful blond hitchhiker rescue his mouthy cousin. Life in New Hope, Indiana is about to change.
1. Chapter 1

July 9th, 1956. Han Solo had ignored his birthday for so many years that this one—his twenty-fourth—would have passed unnoticed if Chewie hadn't insisted on Han taking the day off. At first, Han snorted: birthdays were for kids.

"I never knew you were so sentimental, pal," Han said, crossing the diner kitchen to the peg by the back door where he hung his tool belt. Wedge called from the grill that there was a heating coil in the dishwasher that needed looking at. Okay, Han answered, sure, and then there was that faulty oven timer, and when it stopped raining he'd get the ladder out take a look at the soffits; that line cook, Wes (or was it Kes? Was there a Kes _and_ a Wes in the same kitchen?) saw a wasp's nest up there. Plus—

Chewie cut Han and Wedge off with something about spending one's day of birth on rituals of manhood, or maybe it was just a grunt. But Han always got what Chewie meant, even if no one else seemed to.

Han leaned his long body against the tile wall. "Sorry, guys. No go on them dirty plates." Han coughed. "Chewie says I gotta go kill a bear with a spear he carved outta the beak of a hawk."

Against the laughter of Wedge and Wes (...and Kes?), Chewie brandished the huge metal spatula that often delivered a hell of a slap to Han's arm or leg or even ass when he got too mouthy. Then Chewie growled some bit about _set yourself a noble task_ , or maybe it was _go into the woods and confront the truth of yourself_. It was hard to tell with all that red Viking beard in the way, but Han understood when Chewie was adamant. So Han shrugged and off he went into downtown New Hope, with no idea what to do with himself.

At first he'd loped down the main drag, head bent against the rain, hands stuffed in his trouser pockets. It didn't take long to walk downtown's entire four blocks—Han was long-legged, and New Hope was small; he'd seen it all in his two months in town. Han considered browsing new records at the five-and-dime, or the magazines at Knapp's Drugs. He could catch a flick, maybe check out the pool hall just over the railroad tracks. Or he could drive out to Cloud City for a drink, hopefully a game of cards. The corner of Han's mouth crawled up. Rituals of manhood, huh? Maybe that cute singer, Donna, would be around.

Han doubled back to Chewie's diner, where he'd left his truck. Soon he was at the outskirts of New Hope, heading for Lando's tavern—it was just eleven in the morning, but him and Lando went way back, he'd let Han in—when he spotted the hitchhiker walking backward along the side of the road, thumb upthrust. And Han felt an impulse, even a compulsion, to pick him up. Maybe it was the way the blond kid was walking, not sitting around waiting for a lift. Han respected that gumption: he'd always kept walking, himself, in the past when he'd been forced to hitch and no one would stop. Not for the first time, Han patted a palm gratefully against Millie's steering wheel.

Maybe it was because this kid seemed powered by some integral good nature, smiling, nearly bouncing on his heels as he walked. Han often deployed his own lopsided grin to get what he wanted, but there was no guile on this towhead's face: his smile was beaming, hopeful, trusting. Out in the rain, soaked to the skin, and still the kid radiated an essential sunniness.

(Maybe he picked the kid up just for the company. Han's disregard for his birthday, though genuine, was part of the emotional callus he'd built up over the years as surely as the literal ones on his hands. But underneath that functional toughness was a persistent, unconscious loneliness that grew acute every July.)

Whatever the reason, Han pulled over. He leaned across the bench seat and popped the lock on the passenger door, and the kid actually whooped for joy as he hopped inside. Han rolled his eyes. These Indiana kids, man, were square as hell. Slamming the door, the kid shook raindrops from his short blond hair and chirped, "Hey! Buddy!"

Han raised his eyebrows. "Uh, hi there, _buddy_."

The boy grinned so hard his blue eyes crinkled. "No, I mean," he said, gesturing at the truck's radio, "Buddy Holly. You like rock 'n' roll?"

Han turned up the volume. Sure enough, "Peggy Sue" was bounding into its exuberant solo. He glanced over his shoulder before pulling out into the deserted road. There was no real traffic out here in the sticks, but old city habits died hard. "Where you headed, kid?"

"Starwood," the kid said.

"Where's that?" Han asked, tapping his index finger on the wheel along with the beat. He _did_ like rock 'n' roll, though he saw no reason to tell some stranger that. Music had gotten Han through some hard times. When he was sixteen, running those laundry deliveries. Basic training, then, overseas. Most recently, on that frantic, headlong drive from Baltimore, the radio had kept him going those edgy hours, kept his eyes open and his pedal to the floor.

"Half-hour down the road. Less, the speed you're going." The boy tilted his head. Han had the uncomfortable feeling of being read. "I thought you were from around here? You look familiar."

Han lifted a shoulder. "I'm from a lotta places."

Han had already placed the blond kid. He'd seen him at Chewie's a few times, though not lately; played the jukebox, got a milkshake. Seemed to be friends with the kitchen guys, Wedge and Wes and Kes. Though the kitchen gang looked a lot different than this preppy kid, in their greased-up ducktails and jeans and leather. But they all seemed to click; he'd seen them jawing with this kid on their breaks, talking hot rods and Elvis and chicks.

"I'm Luke," the boy said.

"Han." Han shook Luke's outstretched hand. Luke scrubbed the sleeve of his blue button-down against his wet hair, gazing openly at Han. "Wait a minute," Luke said, happily. "I _do_ know you. You're from New Hope, too."

"I'm not _from_ New Hope," Han muttered.

"I mean, you work at Chewie's place."

"I work a lotta jobs, kid."

Luke looked crestfallen at Han's terseness. Han softened, some. Luke seemed like a nice kid. Not like those rich jock pricks who came into Chewie's on Friday nights. They'd loosen the rotating counter stools at their bases, so they'd wobble. Unscrew the light-bulbs in the men's room. They'd laugh and smirk as Han passed by, smart off about his tool-belt. Han didn't let it bug him, most of the time. He figured them for about nineteen; Han was older, and he was damn sure he'd seen more than they had. These twerps didn't even rate Han's anger. Except for that biggest jock, the blond, their leader. _Theo_ – _Quarterback_ stitched on the sleeve of his letter jacket. Just last week, Theo spilled a milkshake just to watch Annie clean it up. Han scowled, remembering Theo's lewd commentary as Annie bent over with her cloth. _That_ guy just might get himself punched. Not at the diner, though. Han didn't want to bring Chewie any heat.

"Yeah, Chewie's an old pal," Han allowed. "I'm around the diner sometimes. Think I've seen you, too." He cocked his head at Luke. "You got wheels, don't you? Cream Buick, red stripes?"

Luke lit up. "Yep! You've seen my car?"

"Sure," Han said. "That's a solid ride. Convertible?"

"Yeah, the Roadmaster 2. Saved up my paper route money for three years."

"Good for you. The R2 rolled out in, what, '47?"

"I think so? Needs a little work, but-"

"Hell, that's the fun part!" Han gave the steering wheel a pat. "Millie here's a '49 Chev. Barely ran when I got her. Now I know she don't look like much, but she's got it where it counts, kid: '55 bent-8. Fastest old bird around."

"She's got a new V-8 engine?" Luke marvelled. "You do that yourself?"

"That's right." Han was pleased with Luke's assumption. "I've always liked messin' with machinery." He'd earned several mechanical and carpentry classifications in the army, but he didn't see a reason to tell a near-stranger that, either. Still, the kid had gone up again in Han's estimation by earning his own wheels. Han thought again of those jocks, gunning their expensive engines in Chewie's parking lot. All those beautiful cars, bought for them by their fathers. For graduations. Christmases. _Birthdays._ For a moment, Han burned with every old bitterness. Unconsciously he caressed the dashboard, soothing himself. Ah, no matter. No shiny, soulless sports car could hold a candle to his Millie.

"So, Luke. Why you hitchin' when you could be ridin' with the top down?"

Luke smiled, wryly. "It's raining."

Han snorted.

"If I took my car, my father would know I'd gone." Luke looked at his hands. "I'm not allowed out."

"Jeez, kid. What was your offence?"

"Got drunk with Wedge and Kes and Wes, back in June."

Han gave a low whistle. "You've been on lockdown for a month?"

Luke looked out at the woodland rolling by. "Father is strict." Luke seemed tense, so Han let the radio do the talking for a couple klicks. Soon, Luke had relaxed enough to nod his head along to the song: Han recognized The Coasters, singing "Searchin'."

"What's in Starwood?" Han asked, carefully.

Luke brightened. "My cousin." He patted his palms in an eager beat against his chino-clad thighs. "How about you, Han? Where you headed?"

 _Gonna find her,_ chanted the Coasters.

"It's my bir—my day off," Han shrugged. "Sometimes I just like to drive. See the countryside."

Han wasn't going to talk about Cloud City with this kid, not illicit card games and noon-time drinks; he knew Lando was playing it straight with his new place—well, more or less. (Han also wasn't going to talk about the dressing room with Donna last week before she went onstage, how she'd wanted it quick and rough, skirt hiked up on that ugly plaid couch.) But "liking to drive" wasn't Han's standard bullshit: the rural woodscape around New Hope made Han, a city boy born and raised, feel a strange peace. Especially now, full summer. It was clean out here in a way that let a man breathe.

Han rolled down the window. Luke rolled his down too. The rain had stopped; a gulf of blue was opening in the north. Exhilarated by rushing air, the smell of firs and wet earth, Han felt as though he could merge with that opening sky. Instinctively he sped up, shifting from third gear to fourth as though gaining speed for liftoff. Then a new vibration in the gearshift sent a minute wrongness into Han's palm, fingertips, wrist. He winced, eased off the gas. He'd have to double-check Millie's transmission.

"Say." Luke turned his eager blue gaze on Han. "How about running my cousin and I back to New Hope?"

Han exhaled. "It's my day off _._ "

"C'mon, please?" Wow, Luke could really whine when it suited him. "I gotta get back before my father gets home from work. He can be..."

The kid looked so bleak that Han felt a qualm of conscience, which he fought off with bluster. "Hell, kid, I don't see how is this my prob-"

"I'll pay you two hundred dollars," Luke blurted.

Han shut his mouth. Two hundred would take care of several auto modifications. Or he could sock it away in his Florida fund. Those beaches were looking closer by the day.

 _(Gonna...)_

An itchy feeling rose in Han's gut. His sixth sense, his sense of luck. Since he was a child, Han had recognized this thrill of good fortune. It happened when he met Chewie. When he was dealt the right cards. When he won Millie. When he felt that tingle of faith Han hurled himself after it, no questions asked.

 _(...find her.)_

"All right," Han said, with studied indifference. "Two hundred bucks. You got yourself a driver."

The two young men shook hands. Luke beamed and punched the air and, in spite of himself, Han smiled. This kid really was the living end. Han didn't even mind when Luke leaned over and turned up the radio without asking.

( _Gonna find her._ )

 _Good one, Solo,_ Han's mind-voice whispered: the wry, skeptical voice in Han's head that counterbalanced his exuberant sense of fate. He trusted the mind-voice as much as he did his good-luck gut; that voice had kept him alive in Korea, more than once. _Couple_ _months in New Hope and you've already found trouble._


	2. Chapter 2

Han had expected Starwood to be a town, but Starwood was a building, a sprawling Cape Cod mansion. He could see that the structure was well-built and tasteful, covered in gray shingles with shuttered windows, porch dotted with baskets of red flowers. Still, Han hated the place on sight. Starwood was handsomer than where he'd grown up, but just like Corell Home, it was behind high, closed gates. There was never any good reason for that.

Halfway up the winding driveway, Han pulled Millie over on a wooded curve and cut the engine. Steadily, he regarded Luke. Soon enough, the kid looked shifty.

"What's the story, Luke?"

Luke fiddled with his cuffs. "We're picking my cousin up from schoo—"

Han shook his head, folding his arms across his chest. "That's no school."

"Sure it is!" Luke pleaded. "Starwood School."

He squirmed under Han's hard gaze. Finally Han nodded crisply.

"All right, ride's over."

Luke's mouth dropped open. "But Han, we had a deal!"

" _That_ ," said Han, stabbing a long index finger towards Starwood, "is rich-kid jail."

Luke opened his mouth, then seemed to give up. "Okay. It's the Starwood School for Ladies' Moral Guidance..."

"Aaaaaaah, _there_ it is." Han groaned a laugh. "Nope. If you think I'm gonna ferry around some rich spoiled brat, forget it."

"She's not spoiled." Luke said, hotly. "She's no brat, either! She's 19, same as me."

Han glowered at Starwood. "I got a bad feeling about this place."

"Yeah, me too! Leia doesn't belong here."

 _Leia._ For the second time that day, Han felt the distinct strumming of luck in his gut, warring now with the unease in his thoughts.

"She _is_ rich," Luke conceded.

Han cocked an eyebrow.

"Or, she will be this December, when we turn 20. I'm sure she'll be grateful to you for-"

"Hell, I'll be long-gone by December," Han said, waving a dismissive hand.

"Okay. Listen." Luke spoke rapidly. "Leia's got a trailer. Out on this rural property of her family's. Actually, it's my trailer, she gave it to me. I had this plan, for awhile..." Luke swallowed. "Real nice Airstream, a Falcon, barely even touched. Kitchenette, bunk, bathroom. The works." Luke was playing a hunch that Han had no home to speak of. "You can stay in the trailer. Rent-free. As long as you want."

Han kept his eyes on the imposing building, but inside, his natural self-interest revved. Bunking for free in a cherry Airstream Falcon sounded...well, pretty damn great. But Han made a cunning show of scoffing. "I got a free place now. Why would I wanna move _all my stuff_ from the place I got—"

Han didn't say that his "place" was the floor of Chewie's cramped, dark apartment above the diner, nor that his "stuff" was spartan. Instead Han strove to imply that he owned three grand pianos and a herd of cattle.

"You can _have_ the Falcon," Luke pressed, desperate. "Okay? It's all plumbed-in, so you can't move it right away. But it's yours. I promise. Just help me..." Luke drew a shaky breath. "Just help me bring Leia home. She's had a hard time, and I'm scared she—" The kid's voice broke. Han looked at Luke and saw, with horror, that the kid's big blue eyes were filmed with tears. "Please, Han. She's my best friend."

"Alright." Han held up his palms. "Alright, alright, alright,"

"Thank you." Luke sagged with relief. "Golly, Han. Thank you so—"

Han squirmed. "I said _alright._ " He squinted at the gate, searching out the small black box he knew would be mounted there. He pointed at the intercom. "Do we just say we're here to see, ah, Leia?"

 _Leia._ The name felt odd on Han's tongue. Not _bad_ odd, not bad at all. Just...different. Special _._

Sweet.

 _Cut it out, Solo,_ scolded his mind-voice. _Listen to_ _me_ _, not your co-_

Luke narrowed his eyes. "She's not allowed visitors."

"Not allowed..." Han slapped the steering wheel. "What'd _she_ do? Did she get drunk with you and Wedge and Wes-n-Kes back in June, too?"

He meant this sarcastically.

"Yes," Luke said.

Han sat stunned. Luke held his gaze.

"You're tellin' me," Han said, evenly, "That this girl's folks locked her up like some princess in a tower because she did some underage boozing?"

"Not her parents," Luke replied. "Her parents died in April. It was a—a house fire. Leia was with me at the diner, helping me cram for a chem test. When we pulled up, the Organas' house was up in flames." Luke swallowed so hard that Han heard a little click. "Me and Wedge, we had to hold Leia back."

Han remained silent out of respect for this terrible fact.

"Leia's neighbors took her in. The Isolders. They're the richest people in New Hope, their house is like a palace. Leia seemed all right, finished out the school year. She was valedictorian, even gave her speech." Luke shook his head. "Leia's so brave. _I_ knew she wasn't okay, but no one else did."

Luke rubbed at the space between his eyes.

"Yeah, so we all got drunk last month, right after graduation. We went out to Alder Glen—that's Leia's family's land. We were just listening to the radio, dancing. Swimming in the lake." Luke's expression clouded. "Theo Isolder and his jerk friends showed up. There was a fight. I don't remember much after Theo hit me."

"Theo, huh," Han said, darkly. Good old Theo the quarterback.

"Someone called the cops. Erin Isolder showed up—she's like the queen of New Hope, right? Knows the mayor, the chief of police. She took Theo and Leia and me right off the beach. She called my father. Let Wedge and Wes and Kes go to jail overnight." Luke's lips gave a bitter twist. "The next day Leia was just...gone. Erin Isolder never returned my calls. I haven't known where Leia was for almost a month."

"Holy shit." Han leaned back. "Why would this rich broad wanna lock, uh, _Leia_ up?" Han shifted in his seat. It happened again as he said her name, that frisson in his gut.

"I don't know," Luke admitted. "That night, Leia wasn't in her right mind. She was drunk. And it was like everything, all her grief and anger, had built up and she let it go all at once. Maybe Erin didn't know what to do with Leia, in that state. Erin's not exactly the comforting type."

Han grunted, deep in thought. "Maybe she had Leia doped up."

Luke looked at him in horror. Han shrugged. "Sorry, kid. I don't wanna rattle your cage but if this is the kinda place...why'd you think there's no guards? They don't need to worry about girls escaping if they're zonked."

Luke chewed his lip. "Well, Leia's off it now, if they had her on something. She wants out. She smuggled a note to old Ben Kenobi—he has a place at the lake too, near Alder Glen. Keeps to himself but Leia and I visit him."

"Smuggled?" Han asked, bemused.

"Yeah, Leia does research for Ben in the town archives. Old photographs, stuff about the land. To inspire his work. Ben's a painter. He's teaching me." Luke's eyes went dreamy. "Do you like art?"

"Uh..." Han was dizzied by this sudden change of topic. "...I guess art's fine once you got all your needs covered."

Luke got this weird zealot look then, Han thought. "Art _is_ a need, Han. It's how people communicate."

"Oh yeah?" Han said. "How'd Leia _communicate_ to you that she wanted outta here? With a watercolor sunset?"

"No." Luke smiled with a patience and pride that made him look much older. "She glued a note under the flyleaf of an old farmer's almanac—they must have a library in there—and mailed it to Ben." Luke said. "He got it to me last night."

"Why didn't she mail it directly to you?" Han asked.

"My father gets our mail at his office. Also, Erin Isolder knows my father. She's—Father is—well, it's complicated."

"Leia's a smart girl." Han didn't ask it.

"Sure is," Luke said, softly. "She wants to be a newspaper writer."

Han smirked, shook his head. Luke frowned. "What? You don't think a girl—"

"Naaah, that's not it," Han said. "Just, after what I've...hell. Let's just say, I don't have much faith in the news." He opened the door of the truck. "C'mon, Picasso. Let's get this done."

Luke was relieved as he followed Han, trotting to keep up with the lanky man's stride. There was something about this older guy, something in his long, loose gait, that spoke of masculine competence. Han was tall and broad, stubbled, scarred: unmistakably a man. Men knew what they were doing! Men had _plans._ As Han approached the closed gates, Luke felt the knot in his stomach relax. Maybe everything would be all righ—

Han clubbed the intercom with a rock.


	3. Chapter 3

The gates clicked open in a shower of sparks. Han nodded with a mixture of satisfaction and scorn: the electronics of the intercom linked to the locking mechanism. Pathetic. Just like Corell Home, the security here was primitive, easily solved. Only at Starwood, they couldn't beat him up for discovering that. Not now that he was a man. Han flashed a grim, private smile, tossing the rock from palm to palm. But they were goddamn welcome to try.

Han glanced back at Luke, who was still gaping. "What?" Han demanded. "You thought this was gonna be pretty?"

Han motioned Luke through the gates. Luke near-tiptoed up the manicured grass. "Walk easy," Han muttered. Around the side of the building they found a kitchen entrance, door propped open with a stack of burlap bags. Han knew what they held: flour and oats, rice, laundry supplies. These staples were of a higher grade than he'd grown up with, but in the end, institutions were all the same. Han slung a dense sack of washing soda over his shoulder. Luke bent to grasp one too, buckling under the load. "Take the powdered soap," Han hissed, kicking at a smaller bag.

With no trace of self-consciousness, Luke hoisted the lighter burden. Han liked the kid all over again for not arguing. He'd appreciated guys like that, in Korea. Guys who could follow logic over ego. It showed commitment to common sense. And common sense was what kept you breathing.

Sacks propped on their shoulders, Han and Luke entered the huge, steamy kitchen. Just like in in Corell Home, the linoleum floor was slick with grease; Han was slightly aghast how easily his body adjusted to the lack of grip, resuming a compensatory glide he'd long thought abandoned except in bad dreams.

Han scanned the kitchen staff. He'd know his target when he spotted it: not the head cook, but not some dishwasher, either. Someone with just a little too much self-importance, but not the leader. Han moved towards a prep cook.

"Where's the elevator?" Han kept his voice brusque, just this side of impatient.

"Kitchen pantry's right over there." The cook didn't look up from his chopping.

Han jerked his chin at Luke's cargo. "That there's laundry soap, friend. Gotta go to the laundry. You wanna be putting that in the dishwasher by mistake?"

The cook frowned. "There's a code you have to enter, in the elevator. I don't think I can give it out-"

Han promptly dropped the fifty-pound bag of washing soda at the cook's feet, booming cheerfully, "Well, sure, we're happy to leave 'em with you." He elbowed Luke. "Hey, Frank, this'll cut our delivery time in half! C'mon, let's bring in the rest of the bags. Yeah, just pile all 60 of 'em right he-"

The cook blanched. "No, no, shit! I'm already behind. You do it! Four."

"The code is...four?" Han tried to keep the amusement from his voice.

"Four."

Han re-shouldered the bag, trying not to smirk. He gave the cook a lazy salute.

XXXXXXXXXX

They actually did take the elevator down into the laundry, to Luke's surprise; he'd been about to press the 2 in the room number Leia sent him: 2 - 187. The laundry room was a dark space, filled with wet heat. Industrial machinery hummed and sloshed and shook. The air was caustic with cleaning agents.

Han ambled between the thrumming washers, his face arranged in an affable, dumb expression, keeping the washing soda slung over his shoulder. When he was satisfied no one was around, he dropped the bag—and the dopey face—with a contemptuous grunt.

Han moved to a massive table in the center of the room, heaped with clean, unfolded laundry. He began rifling the piles of whites, towels and sheets and pillowcases. Luke, without knowing what he was looking for, began digging in the piles of starchy cotton, too. He came up with a bunch of weird, tiny blankets and sheets. Maybe they'd been shrunk, Luke thought. But then it was a bunch of weird, tiny hats and socks. Despite the humidity, Luke felt his skin bunch up.

"Man. This place gives me the creeps."

Absently, Han nodded, his jaw tense. Inside, Han was fighting an irrational urge to run. The associations with Corell Home were nearly overwhelming down here, memories assailing him: the grinding of the dryers, the burning chemical stink. At the Home, all the boys were required to take shifts in the laundry twice a week. But if you got slapped with a disciplinary stint, you were put on laundry shift for a straight month, even sleeping on a cot in the basement. You became isolated, almost feral and subterranean, only allowed upstairs only for showers and meals. It was dangerous; every year at least one boy got scalded by boiling water, or caught in the mangle, or scorched by the ironing plate, or splashed with lye and bleach. Take your pick, Han thought. And even when you were reprieved from the dark, poisonous mist, you squinted in the light and coughed for weeks.

Han's hands were twitching by the time he found what he was looking for in the jumbled cloth. He slipped into the white coat, vaguely medical, and tried to pull it shut across the chest, over his own bomber jacket. It was a bit too narrow for Han's broad shoulders, but he couldn't face staying down here to find another that fit, he couldn't make it one more minute, not for money or Chewie's warrior honor or to save his own life. Han left his jacket unfastened, tossed another coat to Luke, and tucked a third under his arm.

"Put it on," Han growled, already stalking towards the elevator as fast as he could while maintaining the illusion- for Luke, or himself?- that he wasn't spooked.

XXXXXX

The elevator doors opened on the second floor. Han nudged Luke, who was facing the wrong way. In the hallway, Han's engineer boots and Luke's sneakers sank into luxurious carpet, and the walls were covered in fancy, textured cloth. Luke looked around like he'd been grounded most of his life. Almost imperceptibly, Han shook his head. _Don't gawp, kid,_ he thought at Luke as hard as he could.

The halls were full of white-clad men and women—Han couldn't tell if they were guards, doctors, nurses, orderlies, or cleaning staff. Probably some of each. He knew there must be some type of coded hierarchy of uniform that he and Luke were flouting, but for now the pair passed unnoticed in their stolen white coats. Han's jacket was open and the kid looked about twelve, but no one seemed to give them a second glance. Judging from such lax security, Han figured no one ever tried to escape this place, or break into it.

Was it a hospital? Not quite, though it was clearly somewhat medical—not a reformatory, either, though it had an authoritarian air. Best Han could tell, Starwood was a place for society to stash rebellious party girls. _Rich_ society: Luke kept twisting to look at real art on the walls, highlighted by soft, recessed lighting. The place was sumptuously appointed, but in a way that prickled Han's neck. Like a trick. Underneath all the luxury, Han could feel the turning of cold, ruthless machinery, as though the whole place was built on a mess of gears. Not fun gears, either, not like in engines. These felt like cruel gears, propelling the kind of machine that wouldn't stop grinding if someone fell in. Han thought of Korea again. A machine _designed_ to drag people in.

The doors to the private rooms were all open. Han and Luke peered in at young women tucked into plush beds, or staring vacantly through silk-curtained windows. They didn't seem defiant or wild or delinquent, to Han; these girls looked sad, and tired. Some were weeping. Some of them were pacing slowly around their rooms, round and ungainly, and—oh.

Oh, shit.

Well, Han thought, now he knew why none of these girls were trying to escape.

Starwood was a place to stash rich, unmarried young women who found themselves pregnant. Hide 'em away, say they went to visit some aunt. Give the eventual baby up to other rich families— essentially sell the child, even—regardless of what the girls wanted, how they felt. After a few months the girls come back to their families, slender again, no one the wiser. Han, who had never known his own father, suppressed a convulsive shudder. Yeah, he knew the deal, though he'd always been careful to never be the cause of this situation himself. The idea of knocking some girl up was a personal terror. Being raised in an orphanage would do that to a guy, Han thought sourly.

Han glanced at Luke, still rubbernecking the pretty pictures on the walls. No way the kid knew the score; Han doubted Luke had even kissed a girl before. Han bit the inside of his cheek in quick thought. Luke had said Leia was living with some rich family for a couple months, the family of that jerk-ass football jock. Theo. Yeah, Theo Isolder probably got Luke's cousin in trouble, and when his fancy socialite ma found out, she hid Leia away here. Damn. They were gonna break out a pregnant girl? And then what? Damn! This was a level of trouble Han didn't need; screw the Falcon, screw the two hundred bucks, he was getting out of here right—

Han stopped dead.

Inside room 2 - 187, on a narrow bed, was a tiny young woman reading a book. She lay on her side in a white sundress, one knee drawn up under her full skirt. Pale skin, red lips, long chestnut hair in two girlish braids. _Luke never said,_ was the fragmented beginning of Han's thought as the girl looked up, revealing her lovely, delicate face, the biggest brown eyes Han had ever seen. _Luke never said she was beautiful._

Leia leaped to her feet. She was wearing pristine white canvas sneakers, ready to run, as though she'd known they were coming. Her dress, very fitted at the waist, betrayed no hint of pregnancy. In fact, Han thought, she was so slim he could probably span her middle with his hands. But hell, maybe nothing showed for awhile and then it was just...there, all at once? Han didn't know much about pregnancy, other than how to prevent it.

"Aren't you a little short for an orderly?" Leia said to Luke with a straight face, though her eyes were bright and wet with mingled merriment and hope. For a long moment the pair hugged, laughing, maybe crying. At last, Luke pulled back and gave Leia the spare white coat. Leia held it up to herself, scoffing. "No one will believe me as a doctor."

"Why not?" Han interjected, flashing the roguish version of his half-smile that he reserved especially for attractive women. "You look pretty smart."

"Thanks for the support," Leia muttered, with a definite unimpressed edge. Han's winning grin dimmed; he tilted his head at her as though she were a billboard written in a foreign language. Leia explained, to Luke, "There are no female doctors or orderlies here."

"So be a nurse," Han said, distractedly, leaning out to scan the hallway. No one here yet, but the elevator, he noticed, was in motion, on its way down from the fourth floor.

Leia offered Han a face filled with false cheer. "Oh! Did you steal me a dress and cap? Aren't you... _smart_." She looked back at Luke, hooking a thumb at Han. "Who _is_ this?"

Luke opened his mouth. "My fr-"

"I'm the guy on the white horse, Princess," Han cut in. "In the white coat, anyway. So why don't you be a sweetheart and put yours on, too, and then we'll all enjoy a round of _let's get the hell outta here._ "

Leia slipped into the doctor's coat with mocking alacrity. "Perfect fit," she said dryly, the sleeves brushing her knees, the coat's hem sagging almost to her ankles.

Han's eyes fired with incredulous affront. "Apologies, milady," he said, palm pressed to his chest, offering a stiff, shallow bow. "I couldn't locate the cartoon bluebirds who usually sew your clothes."

Luke snorted, though he quickly turned this into a cough. Leia's own eyes flared right back at Han. "I hardly require a ballgown," she snapped, flapping a voluminous sleeve. "But this is _farce_."

"Maybe you'd like to stay here in your cell, Your Highness," Han snarled.

"Like that's up to you?" Leia retorted.

"Nope," Han said, leaning back into the hallway at the sound of a bell. The elevator doors were opening; a whole lot of legitimate white-coats were emerging. "But it's probably up to those guys." As a nurse peeled off from the group and headed towards Leia's room, Han pulled swiftly back inside, closing the door. "Luke. We've got company."

XXXXXXXXX

Author's Note:

I'd like to say here that my feelings and political opinions about enforced adoption, unplanned or teen pregnancy, premarital sex, virginity, and so on are certainly not reflected by those cultural practises symbolized by Starwood. I'm trying to reflect certain mores of the 1950s, though I may sometimes fail at that. My apologies if I've hit on a sensitive topic for anyone.

Thanks for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

Leia said, "You've just cut off our escape route!"

Han ignored her, stripping off his own white coat. He'd need range of movement, now, more than disguise. Han braced his body against the door. Seconds later, there was a knock. "Miss Organa?" a patronizing female voice came through the wood. "It's time for your medication."

A flicker of rage crossed Leia's face, but it didn't appear in her calm voice. "I'm changing."

"Miss Organa, I know I've informed you of our policy on closed doors." The brisk tyranny in the nurse's tone set Han's teeth on edge.

Leia's own tone turned acid. "Thank you, Nurse Henderson, I'll only be a moment."

The doorknob jiggled. Luke threw a worried look at Han. Han leveraged his height, pressing against the door.

"This door is obstructed!" the nurse called down the hall. Leia was no longer paying attention. She'd crossed the floor to the casement window. Luke followed.

Han, left bracing the door, gestured wildly at the cousins. Both were kneeling on the deep, upholstered window seat, looking down through the glass, intent in conversation that seemed both verbal and telepathic.

"Miss Organa!" Nurse Henderson shrilled. "I must demand-"

"Ah," Han called. "Miss Organa can't come to the door now. She's, ah, indecent."

Leia threw a glare over her shoulder at Han. Han was torn between glee at seizing Leia's attention and frustration at this growing bungle. He remembered how he and Chewie and Lando had measured bad missions in vulgar increments. _This is no longer a quarter-fucked situation,_ _boys,_ Han thought.

"Who is—let me in! Let me in at once!"

"Negative," Han babbled. "Negative. Miss Organa is having her bath." Damn, he really liked _that_ mental image too much. "She's fine...here...now." Han paused. "How are _you?_ "

He winced. _Oh, Solo._

"Miss Organa!" the nurse screamed. "Do you have a man in there?"

Leia looked at the tall young man leaning on her door. He looked back at her, his large, unusual eyes—were they gray, or green, or gold, or what?—alight with clever irreverence. Time seemed to slow as Leia studied her absurd, oddly graceful rescuer for the first of what she didn't know would be countless times.

He didn't look like anyone she'd ever met. He wore his thick, sandy hair much longer than Theo's crew-cut, but not greased up like Wedge and Wes and Kes did theirs, and not side-combed and tamed with water in Luke's boyish style. (Chewie's own reddish pelt that seemed to stretch from head to feet was incomparable.) This man's hair was shaggy, almost to the collar of his vintage flight jacket. His pants looked militaristic too, fitted blue with a red stripe running up the outside of each long leg. A plain white V-neck t-shirt. There was something in his frame, the rolling way he carried his broad shoulders and narrow hips, that was cocksure, distinct as the angled scar on his chin. He wasn't a jock, but he looked athletic; he was no rebel greaser, but he radiated natural insolence.

Was he...sneering at her? No, that was just the asymmetrical tilt to his full, almost sulky mouth. He was definitely smirking, though, aware of her scrutiny. "Whaddaya think, Princess," the young man in the pilot's jacket drawled, lazy voice at odds with the tense lines of his lean body, braced against the rattling door. "You gotta _man_ in here?"

Blood rushed to Leia's face. The spell broke; time sped up. "Get over here, Flyboy."

Now he _was_ sneering. "And then what?"

"Fly," Leia said, throwing the wide window open to the summer air.

Luke pushed past Leia, crawling out onto the windowsill. "I'll go first," Luke said. "Let me see if the fall..."

"No, no, _no_ —" Han ordered, each _no_ increasing in sonorous power.

"It was my idea, so I should be the one to risk it, Luke." Leia said, with a casual practicality better suited to considering some new item on Chewie's menu. Han held up an incredulous hand to an invisible audience. These insane circus twins over here were going to be the death of him. On his damn birthday.

Luke scooted to the edge of the windowsill, legs dangling into air.

"No-!" bellowed Han, lunging towards Luke with real alarm. The door opened a crack. Han flung his body backwards against it, slamming it shut. "Watch your fingers!" he called, brightly. The door bucked under Han's spine; new voices, female and male, demanded access. Han crouched, plucked his cheap stiletto knife from his boot, and jammed it through the keyhole into the doorjamb at a savage angle to make a temporary bolt.

"Boring conversation anyway," Han muttered, and ran for the window, just in time to see Luke vanish. There was a _sploosh_ , then a call from below; Leia, leaning far out to look, burst into wild laughter and gathered her skirt, baring the leg facing Han almost to her hip. Han caught Leia by a slim ankle. She kicked at him, tiny and strong under his palm. Han held on to her, sticking his head out the window. Below, Luke was hugging the rim of a huge dumpster that looked to be full of landscaping debris, his white coat filthy, hair soaked. "C'mon! It's soft. Mostly grass and stuff!" Luke hollered. "Mud. And...I _hope_ it's water?"

Leia straddled the sill.

"What the hell are you doing?" Han screamed.

"Someone's got to save our skins!" she yelled back.

"You can't be jumpin' outta windows if you're—aren't you..." Han stopped, flustered.

Leia frowned impatiently at him. "Aren't I what?"

Annoyed with his own discomfort, Han made his voice deliberately callous. "You're in the club."

"The club?"

Han gestured curtly at Leia's abdomen. Understanding broke across Leia's face. "You think I'm...oh, no." She shook her head. "No! _That_ would be positively Biblical." Leia realized what she'd said, blushed, and caught herself. "Not that it's any of your business." Leia wrenched her ankle free and was in mid-air before Han could stop her. He watched her land in debris and go under, struggling to stay above the surface.

Han glanced back at the thumping door. Any second, the makeshift bolt would give. On impulse Han lunged to the bed, seizing the book Leia had been reading. It was a small red spiral notebook—a diary, maybe. Han stuffed it into the inside pocket of his jacket. After making sure Leia and Luke were out of his way, Han backed up, then went onto and off the windowsill in two smooth leaps. The drop through space was exhilarating and brief.

When Han surfaced from the mess, Luke was frantically calling Leia's name. The tiny girl, too short to touch the dumpster's bottom, was trapped somewhere under the layer of turf and weeds. Han, on reflex, shot his hand towards a flash of white and dragged Leia up by an arm, choking and bedraggled, hair laced with grass.

Then the kid somehow got entangled in a length of discarded garden hose. Han shot a look at the open window, where nurses and burly men now buzzed and gathered like wasps. "Get on top of me," Han barked at Leia, jerking a thumb at his own broad shoulders. She hesitated. In the building, an alarm began to sound. "Get," Han roared, "On top!" And this time Leia did, climbing onto his back, winding her legs around his waist and slinging her arms about his neck. It really shouldn't feel as nice as it did, under the circumstances, Han reflected, his mind gone soldier-calm in the filth and noise, as he worked to spring Luke from the binding hose. Freed, Luke hopped to the ground. Han turned to allow Leia to climb from his back onto the dumpster's edge, from which she dropped into Luke's arms.

"They're coming," Leia stated, her voice empty of fear.

Han boosted himself over the lip of the bin, almost vaulting it, landing easy on the ground on the balls of his feet. Just like the climbing wall in basic training, really. But both Luke and Leia stared at him like he'd done something extraordinary, Luke with a kind of awe, Leia with a spark of—something else. If she hadn't just told him she was a virgin, Han thought a bit smugly, he'd have sworn it was lust. He swept his wet hair from his face and regarded her back.

Luke looked between his beloved cousin and his new accomplice. The pair were gazing, intense and assessing, at one another. It seemed to Luke that an energy had gathered around Han and Leia—or a new force had formed between them, a field of challenge and interest and indignation and...heat. Luke knew he was sensitive to atmosphere, to emotional dynamics, in a way others weren't. Ben said that's what made you an artist, when you sensed the ephemeral and were compelled to express it.

But, as Han had said, art was fine _after_ needs were met. As he watched an elderly, gaunt, sinister-looking doctor in black scrubs appear in the open window above, Luke felt that Han maybe had a point.

"Uh," Luke said. "...guys?"

Imperiously the doctor demanded, in a stagy upper-class accent, that Miss Organa return inside at once. Han snorted his disgust: the pretentious voice reminded him of Headmaster Shrike. Miss Organa shot the doctor her middle finger, causing the nurses to explode in squawking outrage. Han burst into rich, somewhat insane laughter. Luke stared at Leia, a slow smile spreading across his face. He had never known his gracious, scrupulously raised, deeply self-disciplined cousin to curse. The doctor looked so enraged Luke thought his head might melt; he pointed a bony, shaking hand, sending orderlies shearing off in pursuit.

Leia scowled and dug in her heels. Han seized her wrist. Eyes blazing, Leia resisted, screaming that Dr. Tarkin could come down himself if he wasn't such a coward, did he only liked tormenting powerless girls? Leia's wrath was so aimed at Tarkin and his staff that she didn't seem to notice when Han plucked her off her feet and slung her over his shoulder, just like that sack of washing soda.

"Move it, kid!" Han bellowed, already running. Draped over Han's back, Leia threw swear words like grenades in their wake. Han was laughing so hard that he kept stumbling. Running as fast as he could after this resourceful, nimble madman and his burden of secretly foul-mouthed, brave young woman, Luke realized that he was helplessly laughing, too. Happy for the first time in the longest month of his life.


	5. Chapter 5

"Princess," Han wheezed with exertion and laughter, as he deposited Leia onto Millie's bench seat. "Where'd you learn to cuss like that? You're like the world's tiniest sailor." Shucking his jacket, Han started snickering again. "Did you really call him a fu-"

"You came in this thing?" Leia said to Luke in embarrassed deflection as Han started the truck. "You're braver than I thought."

The twinkle in Han's eyes died. He pressed his lips together, whipping a tight U-turn that sent Millie careening down the long driveway. Leia, wedged between Luke and Han, looked over her shoulder out the truck's back window. Orderlies followed in a gray Oldsmobile sedan.

"They're catching up!" Leia cried.

Han tossed Leia a knowing smirk. "Not this ride, sister." Han glanced at Luke, his eyes sparking gold. "Ready to let that V-8 rip, kid?" As he merged onto the highway, Han hit the gas, shifting gears. Millie rocketed forward; Leia and Luke were pressed into the seat, everything outside the windows becoming a streaming blur. Luke howled joyfully, Leia squeaked in shock. Han beamed, gratified with their response.

Han watched his rear-view mirror with satisfaction as the Olds diminished, then disappeared.

He felt the gearshift rattle ominously in his palm, so let off the gas a bit. Unruly hair flying in the rush of air from his window, Han felt high and young and masterful. He switched on the radio to "Summertime Blues" and gleefully slapped the steering wheel, cranking the volume so loud the speakers crackled.

"I'm gonna take two weeks, gonna have a fine vacation!" Luke hollered along with Eddie Cochran. Leia glared at Han, turning the music down. Han turned it back up.

"Gonna take my problem to the United Nations," Han teasingly sang at Leia, daringly close to her face. Leia didn't retreat from his invasion of her space, thrusting up her chin to rebut his advance.

"Watch the road," Leia growled, twisting the volume down again. "And slow down! The last thing we want is to be pulled ov-"

"Look, Your Worshipfulness," Han said, pointing at his chest. "I take orders from just one person: me."

"Master of your fate, captain of your soul?"

"You're damn straight."

"It's a wonder you're still alive, _Captain._ "

"No reward is worth this," Han mused in mordant wonder.

Leia's eyes narrowed. "...reward?"

"Uh," Luke said. "I kind of...promised him the Falcon. For his help."

" _Kinda_ promised?" Han barked. "Naaaah-aaah, Junior. Job's done. No _kinda_ about it."

"The Falcon—you mean the trailer? Luke!" Leia said. "You were going to take it when you drove to Chicago."

Luke gave her a sweet smile. "Eh. Something came up." Leia squeezed his arm, resting her head on his shoulder. Luke rested his cheek on her hair.

"So anyway," Han said, into this emotional moment, "I'm gonna move in tomorrow."

Leia turned a disbelieving look on him. "Move in? Oh, no. You're not—"

"What's the big deal?" Han said. "Luke said the trailer was way out in the sticks. I didn't figure I'd be crashin' anyone's-"

"The trailer," Leia said through gritted teeth, "is in the meadow just behind my family's cabin at Alder Lake. Where I'm planning to live. Alone. Without some, some— _reprobate_ watching my every move."

"Ahhh, relax," Han laughed shortly. "This reprobate ain't in it for _you_ , Princess. He's in it for a cherry Airstream Falcon and two hundred dollars."

Leia pursed her lips, studying him, then turned to Luke. "Your friend is quite the mercenary," Leia said, her tone cool and final. Han frowned—strangely, he felt almost hurt.

"I can hardly go back to the Isolders'," Leia added, quietly.

"No," Luke agreed. "Of course not. I didn't even think of where you'd..." Luke rubbed his forehead. "I didn't know your family used the cabin anymore."

"We didn't." Leia sighed. "The cabin needs so much—my father planned to restore it, when he...retired." Her voice wavered; for a moment Han thought she'd cry, but Leia set her jaw. "I'm sure it's sufficient."

"Okay, look." Han rasped a palm over his chin. "Trailer's mine, that was my deal with Luke and he's kept his word like a man." Han nodded at Luke; Luke nodded back. "But _you,_ Sweetheart, didn't agree to any of that. So fair's fair; how's about I'll fix your place up. For my board and keep, like."

Leia blinked at this unexpected decency.

"What?" Han demanded, interpreting Leia's silence as doubt of his abilities. "I'm handy to have around." His chest puffing up, he tapped the truck's dash. "Y'know, last year Millie here was a real wreck."

Leia looked around the battered cab with exaggerated disbelief. " _She was?_ "

Han bristled. "Saved your little regal ass today, didn't she?"

Leia jutted her chin again. Han glared back.

Just in time Luke said, "Boy, Han: when that V-8 kicked in? The way you handled her?"

Mollified, Han reached a long arm behind Leia's shoulders to knuckle Luke's blond head. "Yeah? You think I passed the audition, kid?"

"Heck, yeah! That was _so_ boss, you gotta help me with R2."

Han nodded agreeably, letting his arm settle along the back of the seat, grazing Leia's shoulders. "Yeah, why not? Drive out to the lake this week, if you can shake your old man. We'll take a look."

Leia threw up her hands. "By all means, invite anyone you like to _my_ home."

"Hey!" Luke protested. "I'm _your_ cousin!"

"Take it easy, kid," Han drawled. "Her High-and-Mightiness here just doesn't want me to forget my place." He looked down at Leia. "Don't worry about that, Little Miss. I'll only be visiting the royal court for a few months. Come fall, I'm headed Florida way."

Leia said, with brittle diplomacy, "Then I can hardly ask you to put in the kind of work on the cabin that-"

"I work fast. Plus," Han said, "I ain't no freeloader, Princess. I earn my keep."

Leia didn't reply. For a moment Han felt victorious, then did a double-take at how suddenly, how hard Leia was shuddering in her wet white doctor's coat and dress. He felt her quake under his arm, heard her teeth click.

"Whoa, Sweetheart-"

Luke's eyes widened with concern. "Leia?"

Leia's gaze had turned haunted, inward. "They can g-g-go," Leia said. "They c-c-c-can _all_ go. They can go to _h-h-h-hell_."

Leia's skin was waxy, and her eyes had taken on a glassy sheen Han didn't like. He tugged off her loose coat, keeping his eyes well away from the bodice of her soaked white dress. "Luke. Grab the blanket behind the seat."

"I'm f, ffff, fiiiii," Leia attempted. "I'm fffffiiii-" But her fingers clutched at the edges of the gray wool blanket that Luke draped carefully around her. Han reached across her lap and opened the glove compartment, pulling out his dented flask.

"Drink," Han ordered. "Both of you."

"Han, you're like a St. Bernard, driving around with this stuff!" Luke said. "It's July. You really scared of the cold, or something?"

There was an odd pause. Han's eyes shuttered. "Good for shock," Han said. "Drink."

Leia snatched the flask and took a long, burning swallow of whiskey. She coughed, pressing the back of her hand to her lips, then offered the steel vessel to Luke. Luke gulped at the flask, choking. Then, playing it cool, he held it out to Han. Han shook his head. Leia took it back for another pull. As Leia leaned forward to tuck the flask away in the glove compartment among Han's maps and small tools, the blanket slipped from her creamy bare shoulder. Han, feeling like an intruder in his own truck, swiftly tugged the blanket back up.

"I know it's scratchy," he said gruffly, "but it's clean."

Leia gazed up at him from under her long, sooty lashes, her pupils dilating. Now, _Han_ shivered. Leia burrowed deeper into the blanket. "It smells nice," Leia said, so softly Han wasn't sure he'd heard her right. With a care and relief that he tried to ignore, Han tracked the faint pink blooming in Leia's cheeks, felt her muscles relax into warmth and alcohol.

Leia yawned hard and wide, like a child, and sank into Han's side. Her sigh warmed and prickled his skin through his thin t-shirt. "I don't know who you are," Leia murmured. "Or where you came from..."

By the time Han caught his breath to speak, Leia Organa was fast asleep, tucked under his shoulder.


	6. Chapter 6

Leia woke to a deep, carrying voice. "Grab that edge, Luke. The rig should pop out clean."

A screeching of metal on metal made Leia cringe into her pillow.

"Huh. Some fool _riveted_ —okay, a little coaxing..." Leia heard a whack, then a grunt of triumph.

Leia squinted at the ticking Timex next to the iron bedstead. Already nine? She'd always been an early riser, organized and dynamic. Blearily, she scrubbed at her eyes. It was partly graduation, she supposed. Throwing herself into the last of her schoolwork, her exams, had saved Leia's life after the loss of her parents, of her home. But then school ended. And then came Starwood, with its sedatives. Leia had soon learned to hide the pills under her tongue, then spit them out, but she wondered if she was still feeling their effects.

"We'll trim the flanges later. Kid," Han crowed, "this thing's gonna blow 'em right off the road."

Leia rose. She'd slept insensibly for almost two days, and she felt groggy. Gingerly Leia moved across the cabin's sleeping loft towards the open windows. She clearly heard Luke's question: "How are you and Leia getting along out here?"

With exaggerated enthusiasm Han replied, "Wonderful girl!"

"Come on," Luke chided.

Leia watched Han emerge from under the hood of Luke's car. He wore an olive-green sleeveless undershirt and another pair of those distinctive pants, these ones khaki with gold stripes. "Ahhh, Leia hasn't given me any grief. She kinda frowned when I moved into the trailer yesterday, that's about it." Han wiped his greasy hands on a rag tied to his belt. "It's weird. I've only known her a couple days, but-"

"But what?"

"I dunno, Luke. She's kept to herself. I was expectin' more, you know, more of a scrap." Han sounded...what was it, Leia wondered? Equal parts concerned and disappointed.

Luke sighed. "She's not herself yet."

Even from the window Leia could see the worry on Luke's face, and ached to be the cause of it. Her pride smarted, too, though neither man sounded as though they were pitying her.

"What's Leia like when she's 'herself?'" Han bent back under the hood, as though disinterested in Luke's response. "Toss me that wrench—no, no, the torque wrench."

"She made us jump out a window," Luke said, handing the tool over. "Maybe you remember."

"So that's how Leia comes standard? Full of lip and cussin' out doctors?"

"Not the swearing, no. But she's always been...well, assertive."

Twisting his wrist against the wrench, Han began to laugh. "I still can't believe...I mean, you meet Leia and she's so little and pret—" Han coughed. "Uh, _prissy_ , and then she calls some guy a pissworm-"

Luke chuckled. "You _like_ her."

At her window, Leia drew in a breath.

Han looked sharply up at Luke from R2's inner workings. Luke smiled serenely, implacably back at Han. After a moment Han gave a half-shrug. "I guess I do, kid. It was either that, or kill her."

"Leia might still kill you," Luke teased.

"Yeah, well," Han's voice tightened with effort as he worked at a bolt. "So be it. That'd mean Leia was 'herself' again, right?"

Leia smiled a small, private smile, though unaware of it. Then she looked down at herself. She was swathed in her father's old bathrobe, which she'd put on two days ago, craving his safety. Blinking back tears, Leia pictured her mother, Breha, saying: _Lift up your chin, darling, and go on._ Bail Organa's own cure for suffering was, _Nothing a swim in the lake can't fix, Lelila._

"All right, Papa," Leia murmured. "You're right, Mama, that's enough."

Leia reached up to her braid, began to undo it. First, she'd take a bath. Next, she'd get a bathing suit. And then, she'd figure out the rest of her life.

XXXXXXXXXX

Han knelt on the cabin's front porch, probing a sagging plank near the hammock. The screen door squeaked, and Han looked up to see his small landlady step outside, blinking in the sunlight. Han gulped water too fast from his army canteen. Leia's thick brown hair was pulled into a damp but tidy ponytail, and she was wearing an old-fashioned, knee-length filmy dress. Too fancy for the woods, Han thought, but _damn_ did it look nice, lavender silk pouring over her hourglass shape.

"I found some of my mother's old clothes stored in the closet," Leia said with an uncomfortable laugh, crossing her arms in front of her neckline. "They're from the '30s, I think. But I don't have anything else." She glanced at Luke, perched on the porch railing. "There are some of Padmé's clothes, too. Would you mind-"

"Of course I don't mind, Leia. Go ahead." Luke said warmly, feeling a rush of affection for his thoughtful cousin. Breha and Padmé had been identical twins, small and slender, just like Leia. Leia could have worn their clothes interchangeably, Luke none the wiser that some had belonged to the mother who died just after he was born. It was typically empathetic of Leia to ask Luke, first, before she went ahead.

Leia noticed Han leaning on one raised knee, inspecting the weathered boards. She crossed to look, wincing at the dark softness in the wood. "That looks...bad?"

"Yeah, it's spongy," Han said. "Whole porch needs to be torn out."

Leia raised her eyebrows with just enough doubt that Han felt provoked. "Nothing I can't handle," Han said, with heat. "So you can put away _that_ little look."

"It's not you," Leia said, uncertainly. "It just seems like so much work to finish before winter."

The cabin was actually in decent shape, Han explained. Sure, the porch was soft, the roof and outside walls badly needed new shingles, and the galley kitchen's cabinets were wrecked. A new oil heater had to be installed before winter. He wasn't sure about the wiring, yet, but it helped that Leia's parents had never had the electricity disconnected. The building's foundation was sound, the structure sturdy, the plumbing decent. It was a nice place, Han concluded, gesturing at Leia Organa's land, the meadow and woods and pebbled lake beach, filling with an oddly proprietary approval.

"I figure I'll start tearing off the shingles next week. Get Chewie out here to help on Mondays, when the diner's closed."

"Oh, I couldn't ask Chewie to spend his day off-"

Han grinned. "Aaaah, don't worry about the furball. You'll be makin' his day if you bring him out here, believe me. Chewie likes work and he _loves_ the woods."

Leia hated to feel the recipient of charity, but she sensed that Han was telling the truth. Still, she resolved that she'd find some way to repay Chewie. She adored the giant, hairy, quiet cook; since he'd opened the diner a year ago, Chewie had treated Leia with courtesy and humor. She had loved to study in the big booth at the back of the diner, and he would often bring her tea and a slice of pie. Chewie made the best pie in the world.

Leia's stomach audibly growled.

Luke and Han looked up from their happy conversation about the Falcon. Han's eyes danced.

"Luke, I don't wanna scare you," Han stage-whispered. "But there's something in these woods, kid. Something _hungry_."

Leia mock-glared at her laughing cousin. "Han," Leia asked with glacial dignity, "will you be going to work at the diner, this afternoon?"

"This afternoon?" Han demanded. "Hell no, Princess, we're goin' right now. I don't want some camper findin' my bones with dainty little teeth marks on 'em."

Luke was overjoyed when Leia giggled in spite of herself. It was her real laugh, Luke knew, and to hear it was a deep relief. Luke also didn't miss how Han's face lit up before he re-assembled his ironic mask.

"Luke?" Leia asked. "Do you want to come along?"

Hopping off the railing, Luke shook his head. "I'm going to work with my father this afternoon." He didn't meet Leia's concerned eyes.

"Oh yeah?" Han asked, standing. "That what got him happy enough to spring you this morning?"

Luke gave a rueful grin. "I'm not sure Father is ever happy, exactly. But yes, it got me off grounding."

"Nice trick. What's your father do?"

A shadow passed over Luke's face. "He's the head of Empire Industries. He wants me to go to work for him in the fall."

XXXXXXXXX

Han was weirdly tongue-tied as he drove. It was hot in the truck and Leia smelled warm and sweet, the breeze loosening strands of her ponytail. He ordered himself not to look at her again; his face felt like it might melt off if he did. Maybe he was sick. Yeah, that was probably it, maybe he'd got a little sunstroke. That sun was sure bright beaming off the lake.

To break the silence Leia asked Han about his jacket, which he'd left tossed across the seat. Had his father been a pilot, in the Second World War? She had a way of asking this, Han noticed, that signaled not nosiness, but genuine interest in other people and their lives. Somehow he didn't feel the same reticence, with her, that he normally did.

"No," Han said. "Well. Mayb—no." Leia looked at him curiously. He shrugged. "I found it in a thrift shop. It bothered me that someone just—dumped it there. Like it was nothing."

"Are you interested in flying?"

Leia was so polite, Han felt like he was being interviewed by some diplomat. An extremely attractive diplo-

"Yeah." Han blurted, and then shut up, for fear he would say something crazy. He really wasn't feeling right, warmish and dizzy. But it was a true response: Han desperately wanted to learn to fly. That's why he wanted to go to Florida, there were so many small charter outfits there. He was going to get his pilot's license, then fly vacationers and cargo around. Getting paid to fly was the closest thing to happiness as Han Solo had ever imagined in his life.

 _Until now,_ _dummy,_ Han's mind-voice said, and what the hell was _that_ supposed to mean?

Leia held up the jacket, studying it. Han's memory clicked. He said, "I forgot. There's something in the inside pocket."

He inclined his chin at Leia in a 'go ahead' gesture. Warily, Leia looked at him. "Why am I thinking of that stupid gag, you know, with the can of peanuts, and when you open it a stuffed cobra pops-"

Han smirked. "Relax, Your Worship, I ain't big on snakes." Still watching the road, Han reached out himself; Leia watched his long fingers work deftly into the inside pocket, withdrawing a small red object. She gasped.

"My notebook! How-"

"I grabbed it, right after you pulled that paratrooper bit."

Leia looked at Han for a long, searching moment. He kept his eyes fixed straight ahead, but he felt a heat gathering in his neck.

"Thank you, Han," she said, with feeling. "I hated that I'd left anything of myself in that horrid place."

"Yeah, I get it. When I was a bo-" Han swallowed. "Hey, fuck those guys, right?"

 _Pure poetry, Solo,_ said the voice in his head. Damn it! Since when was it hard for him to talk to a girl?

But Leia didn't seem to notice. "The first week, I mostly slept. They gave me pills. I took them, at first. I—I was dealing with something..." She trailed off.

"Luke told me," Han said, quietly. "I'm sorry."

Leia nodded in simple acknowledgement, tucking loose hair behind her ear. "The worst part, for me, was there was nothing to do. I mean _nothing_ —the library was a single shelf of Bibles and old farmer's almanacs. So I stole this from the stationery closet. Made notes, things that struck me." She looked thoughtful. "I don't know what I'll write about now."

Han, seeking to cheer her, put on a comical falsetto. "Dear Diary, I met the most charming, handso..."

Leia scoffed, rolled her eyes. But she smiled. Han winked back.


	7. Chapter 7

Author's Note: Thanks so much for the reviews! It's very heartening to know you're not posting into a vacuum. Okay, on with the soap opera!

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Annie burst into tears when she saw Leia walk into the crowded diner. _Oh brother,_ Han thought, watching the tears roll down Annie's face, right in the middle of taking some guy's order. The shy, pretty strawberry blonde waitress was sixteen, always reading romance novels. On his first day at the diner, Han had asked Annie where Chewie kept the ladder and she'd blushed and stammered like he'd got down on one knee before her. But Annie was a sweet kid, a hard worker. She worshipped Chewie like a big brother, and Chewie cared for her in a similar way, sending extra food home for Annie's little sisters and sick mother.

Suzette shooed Annie aside and took over the order. Suzette frightened Han, a bit. She was a few years older—around Donna's age, close to thirty—and both women were tough, but where Donna was independent and savvy, Suzette could be nasty. She was a great waitress, though, efficient and reliable, and she truly did seem to care for Annie.

Annie ran over and threw her arms around Leia. "Oh! Miss Organa, I'm so glad you're back! Are you all right? Luke was here, and he said..."

"Please, Annie, call me Leia. I'm not babysitting you anymore." Leia smiled, gently drawing back. "How's summer school going?"

Han noticed how easily Leia guided Annie away from the topic of herself. Her evasive skill made him feel strangely provoked; intrigued, but also almost irritated. Logically, Han knew this wasn't fair. Leia had the right to privacy, and God knew Han himself liked to keep his cards close. But there was something in Leia's poise, in her self-possession, that somehow made Han want special access to her. With a small shock, Han realized that he wanted Leia to trust him, which was bizarre. He'd known her only two days, and since when had he cared what a woman felt for him, beyond sexual interest?

Sure, Han liked women to like him, wanted them to want him. He liked them and wanted them back. Donna, for example. Lando's glamorous, older cabaret singer had approached Han his second week in town. He'd been sitting at the bar in Cloud City, nursing a drink, when the voluptuous blonde slid onto the stool beside his and made Han an offer so straight-up profane it made an incredulous grin crawl across his face. Han tossed back his whiskey and followed Donna backstage.

It had happened a few times over the last two months. They'd met in her dressing room between sets. Han was usually slightly drunk. It was casual, impersonal fun on both sides, and it passed the time, but Han had soon let the fling taper off. He still saw Donna around, they chatted amicably enough in the bar, in the diner. Though he'd briefly thought about looking her up when he was lonely on his birthday, Han knew that any carnal charge between them was mutually and affably over.

Such was the nature of Han's romantic encounters: numerous, easy and good-natured, but short and resolutely detached. No one got hurt, but no one felt much beyond physical pleasure, either. Han had certainly never experienced the mixed frustration and fascination he felt for Leia Organa, with her kind doe eyes and quick, sharp mind, her scathing tongue, her stubborn little chin, her—

"Summer session's not so good, Miss, um, Leia," Annie admitted. "I hate Pride and Prejudice. My teacher said it was romantic, but all Elizabeth and Darcy do is fight!"

Leia smiled. "The thing about that novel is, they're fighting so much because they're in—"

Abruptly Han told Leia that if she wanted a ride back, to meet him here at two o'clock. He stalked off, leaving Leia blinking at Han's curtness, so jarring after his thoughtful return of her notebook. Turning back to Annie, Leia said, "Tell you what: come sit with me on your break and I'll explain it. Remember, like we used to do?" Leia squeezed Annie's hand, and the younger girl nearly swooned with relief.

The silver bells Annie had strung at the front door tinkled. A tall woman with curly dark hair, her olive skin radiant against her coral sundress, flew across the checkered floor. Leia laughed as Shara swept her up and squeezed her. Shara cut her clever amber eyes after Han, almost hurling himself through the swinging doors to the kitchen, and then raised an eyebrow at Leia.

"So, Lei..." Shara tucked her arm through Leia's and led her to a booth. "Is it true that you got rescued by Handypants Solo?"

Leia choked. "Han—pants—what?"

"You know exactly what I mean." Shara smirked, sliding into her seat, watching her childhood friend's face tinge pink. Shara had always had that pinpoint way of hitting the truth, Leia thought. She was a human laser. And even if Leia herself was unprepared to consider just what this particular truth might mean, she was willing to privately concede that Han Solo did good things for trousers.

"I have to be in Mantell for nursing school in two hours. So spill, girlie," Shara ordered.

Annie looked hopefully at Suzette. She had a table to clear, but the brooding handyman (Suzette said Han was just grumpy, but Annie preferred to think of him as brooding) rescuing her adored, lovely Miss Organa? This was the stuff of True Romance magazine!

"Oh, go ahead, you goose," Suzette called.

Delighted, Annie scampered to join the older girls.

XXXXXXXXXX

In the kitchen Wedge shook Han's hand, told him he was a stand-up man. Kes and Wes each said they owed Han a drink. That was fine. Then Chewie slapped Han on the back with one huge hand so hard Han almost lost his footing along with his breath.

"Is...that... _praise?_ " Han croaked.

Nodding and gesturing, Chewie expressed something like _My friend, you have brought yourself great birthday honor with your liberation of another._

"What I brought myself, pal, was a great birthday trailer," Han dismissed, buckling his leather tool-belt on his waist and thigh. It was an unusual configuration, he knew, but he liked how it kept everything strapped in place.

Chewie rolled his blue eyes. Han couldn't fool him, not after Korea, not after Chosin Reservoir. There was no reward then, at Frozen Chosin, and still Han had acted without regard for himself to save Chewie's life. But Chewie let Han keep his venal pose. He knew it made his friend feel safer.

But today Han couldn't quite sell his trademark laconic air. He seemed dazed, staring vacantly into the empty dishwasher.

"Say, Han," Wes called, exchanging a sly look with Wedge. "You ever see Leia before all this went down?"

Han was silent, lost in thought.

"Cute, right?" Wes prodded, deftly folding an omelet.

Han's shoulders tensed; he stuck his head into the dishwasher, as though to escape.

"You think Leia and a guy like him..." Wes muttered to Wedge, who considered, then shook his ducktailed head. Wedge had played cards with Solo, shot pool and shot talk; Han was cynical, hard, no way _he_ was gonna crack, even for the foxy Leia Organa. Wedge had never known Leia to look at any guys, either; mostly she looked at books. She'd probably end up with some professor. On the other hand, Solo was considered real handsome, according to female gossip at Cloud City—

"Ah you _fucker!_ " Solo howled at the rogue dishwasher, sucking a burnt finger into his mouth.

"Nah," Wedge hissed back. "No chance."

Wes cocked his head in challenge. "New pool. Twenty bucks buys in. I say they're, uh, "dating" by the end of the year."

Wedge pulled two crumpled tens out of his pocket. "You're on. I say those two'll kill each other."

Wes whispered the bet down the line to Kes. Kes wanted in, but refused. Shara would kill him if he started betting on the love life of her best friend.

Picking up his spatula, Chewie returned to the grand breakfast he was preparing for Leia. Chewie had first noticed the tiny brunette helping Annie with schoolwork. Chewie's own teachers had called him thick because he couldn't read the way other children did. He knew he wasn't stupid, but it hurt. In the army, Chewie had concentrated on cooking as his certification. He'd been so good that no one questioned his methods. But Chewie had ambitions that went beyond the meals he knew intuitively; he wanted to teach himself new tastes and techniques. So last year, after struggling for days to decipher the recipes in the gourmet cookbook he'd checked out from the New Hope library, Chewie quietly asked Leia for help.

Leia had been wonderful, encouraging and confident in his abilities. She'd taught him memory tricks, new ways of looking at letters, words. After several lessons in the back booth, something clicked. Reading would never come easily to Chewie, but it was no longer a curse. Grateful and proud, Chewie used the gourmet cookbook to make a raspberry-chocolate mousse, and surprised Leia with it.

Artfully, Chewie piled crisp, fluffy waffles with whipped cream and fresh sliced peaches. He rang the bell for Suzette. After Leia had finished eating this, he would send her more. She'd need extra strength, Chewie knew from long experience, to put up with Han Solo for the next few months. Chewie glanced at his normally decisive best friend, who'd drifting away from the half-fixed dishwasher. Everyone in the kitchen stared as Han paced the floor, perplexed. He looked like he'd been hit by a truck.

Kes knew what that look meant. He'd seen it in his mirror for weeks after meeting Shara Bey, until he got the courage to ask her out. A year later he had a ring, though he hadn't told anyone yet. Mouthing "I'm in," Kes slipped Wes a quick twenty bucks. "They're married by Christmas!" he joked. They all laughed.

Clicking his tongue, Chewie added bacon to Leia's feast just as Suzette scooped up the groaning plate. Leia would need extra _extra_ strength to put up with a Han Solo who had clearly fallen in love with her, whether he knew it yet or not. Chewie resolved to shorten Han's list of diner tasks, giving him time to court Leia in proper fashion. Winning the love of someone wonderful was a worthy masculine test.

"Hey Suzette," Wes hissed, when the waitress came back with a stack of dirty plates and stopped dead at the sight of the useless, abandoned dishwasher, and the impatient, swaggering Han Solo wandering the kitchen, rubbing absently at his neck. "Come swim in our new pool with us."


	8. Chapter 8

Leia walked down Main Street with as much purpose as her waffle-stuffed body allowed. As painful as it was sure to be, she would make an appointment at Organa, Rieekan & Horm to see Carlist about her parents' will. Leia knew Carlist wouldn't be in the office; he was spending much of his time at the courthouse in Mantell, wrestling with the cases he'd inherited after Bail Organa's sudden death.

Leia was relieved when Threkin Horm wasn't in. Horm was a relatively new partner, brought on to deal with the increasingly heavy workload. At the time of his death, Bail was concentrating on a property dispute case between heirloom landowners in Alder Glen—Ben Kenobi was one—and an aggressive venture called Cairn Estates looking to develop around the lake. Horm made Leia uncomfortable whenever she was in the office, helping her father with filing and research. He had a way of looking at her—not lasciviously, exactly, but as though Leia was some sort of asset, like the carved ivory curio of a reclining nude woman he kept displayed on his desk.

Carlist's assistant gave her an appointment date in mid-September, when the probate was expected to be through. As she left, Leia peeked into Bail's homey, cluttered office and then fled out to the hot sidewalk. She almost ran down the street to Priscilla's Boutique, desperate to escape the warm scent of mingled leather and parchment, tobacco and wool that she associated with her father.

Between that, and wearing her mother's clothes, the last two days had left Leia nearly overwhelmed. It was as though Leia could feel Breha's and Padmé's carefree, privileged, joyful girlhood in the pretty satins and silks they'd shared—but also her mother's broken heart. Leia pictured Breha handling her lost twin's clothes with heartbreaking reverence, packing them away—never to look at them again, but incapable of parting with them. Like Breha and Padmé, Leia loved clothes, and shopping together was the only way she'd ever felt able to cheer her grieving mother, especially over their argumentative last few years. It pained Leia to go about town, now, looking like a shabby time-traveller, but this wasn't mere vanity; Leia felt that in her makeshift state she was somehow shaming the beautiful, formidably polished Breha.

 _No, no, enough,_ Leia told herself, sternly, outside the frosted glass door of Priscilla's. _Stick to the plan._ She would get a suit and tonight she would swim out to the platform in the middle of the lake. She'd rest on her back on the warm, sweet cedar, let herself roll with the slow waves and watch the stars. And there in the calm and beauty, Leia had faith that she could begin to find peace.

Priscilla greeted Leia warmly. The stately brunette had run her boutique for twenty years; every season since Leia had started school Breha had brought her here to pick out new clothes. At the counter of bathing suits, Leia was immediately charmed by a modest white bikini peppered with red polka-dots. Priscilla smiled. "I thought of you when I saw that suit."

Leia bit her lip. She had to be careful with her funds—all Leia had to live on until her parents' estate was released was the allowances and babysitting earnings saved in her personal account, totalling roughly a thousand dollars. There would be bills to pay at the lake, gas and electric, food and whatever building supplies Han needed. Leia couldn't spare any for new clothes, but a bathing suit wasn't a want. It was a need.

Priscilla was perceptive, and very fond of the young, smart Organa girl. She knew what Leia had lost, but understood that she couldn't give the bikini to Leia outright, that Leia's pride would not permit it. "That one's on sale," Priscilla said. "Eighty percent off."

Leia beamed. "Could I try—"

The door opened, and a subtle note of fine perfume made Leia's skin crawl. "Leelee!"

At that hated nickname, Leia felt a wave of rage so strong that she almost swayed on her feet. She looked into the haughty, well-made-up face of Erin Isolder.

"Goodness, Leelee: _what_ are you wearing? I could swear Breha wore that to our 1933 spring formal." Erin Isolder laughed her tinkling laugh, as though Starwood had never happened.

"Thank you, Pris," Leia heard herself say, as though from a great distance. "I'll come back another time."

"Darling! Stay! Let's catch up." Erin commanded. "How are you feeling? I'm so glad to hear you're home from your little rest."

Leia felt her lip pull back in animal threat. "You must be joking. You _must_ be—you know what kind of place—"

"You were in _such_ a state, dear, and your poor mother was my best friend. Breha wouldn't have wanted anyone to see you like that. I was protecting you."

"You were punishing me," Leia spat. "You sent me to Starwood to punish me for disobeying. You said I wasn't to go out that night, I wasn't to see my friends anymore. Remember? They weren't _our kind?_ And you sent Theo to Alder Glen, to drag me back."

Erin pouted grotesquely. "We were worried, Lee. You weren't in your room." She reached for Leia's arm.

Leia jerked away. "Don't you touch me."

Priscilla raised her delicate eyebrows. "Mrs. Isolder," she said. "I must insist—"

"Nonsense." Erin said, ignoring Pris. "Breha asked me to watch over you, if anything ever happened to her and Bail. I take my promises very seriously." For a moment Erin stared at Leia, then dismissed the conflict with a wave of her jewelled hand. "Theo and I thought we'd drive out to Alder Glen this month to see you, have a cookout on the beach. You remember, Leelee, like we used to with Breha and Bail, when Theo's father was still alive. When you and Theodore were small? Such fun."

Leia gave a hard, disbelieving laugh. "Do you mean," she said, her voice icy, "the beach, _my_ beach, where your _Theodore_ and his thugs attacked the people I love?"

Erin patted her blonde French roll. "Theo has sworn there will be none of that silliness."

" _Silliness?_ " Leia's voice shook with fury. "He beat Luke nearly unconscious."

"I know, dear, and we deeply regret it. Theo is so excited to see you again—even after that business with you and the marshmallow stick." Erin's eyes narrowed. "You did burn him quite badly, Leelee. It left an _awful_ mark, right on his temple. I had to book him in with a plastic surgeon!" Erin rifled the bikinis, batting her eyes at Priscilla. "A man can't go through life with a scar on his face, Priscilla, isn't that right?"

In a sickening moment Leia knew that Erin had seen her with Han. Of course she had; Erin knew everything that went on in New Hope. Leia slipped her trembling hands behind her back. She didn't want any harm to come to Han, she realized, with an urgency strong enough to surprise her.

"It depends on the man, I suppose," Priscilla said lightly, refolding the bikinis that Erin had disarrayed.

"Anyhow," Erin trilled at Leia, "Theo's completely forgotten what you did."

"He shouldn't," Leia snapped. "If he ever touches Luke again—"

"He won't, dearest. I do guarantee that." The older woman flashed her sharp teeth. "Luke is a sweet boy. Just like Padmé. Dreamy, sensitive."

A chill gripped the back of Leia's neck.

Erin held up the polka-dot bikini, passing a critical eye over it. She shook her head and dropped it, moving along the display table, dragging her manicured nails against the wood. "Luke is...vulnerable in so many ways."

Leia swallowed her growing urge to be sick.

"I do hope Anakin never finds out just how you were liberated from Starwood, Leelee. He's a most unreasonable man. Not like me; I'm quite forgiving. But Anakin, even with Padmé, he could be..." Sadly, Erin shook her head. "He and Luke are getting along, now, with Luke's apprenticeship. It would be terrible for Luke if something altered Ani's mood." Erin's eyes, gray and cold as steel, pierced Leia's. "So. About that cookout?"

Unable to speak around the hot, enraged lump of tears in her throat, Leia nodded, once, putting pure hate in her stare back at Erin.

"Excellent." Erin selected another bikini, held it up. "Now. Let's find you something pretty to wear for Theo, dear. My treat."


	9. Chapter 9

Ripping rotting cedar shingles loose from the side of the cabin in the August heat, Han sweated in his summerweight khaki bloodstripes and torn white undershirt, listening to Luke and Chewie up on the roof. The radio was on; Luke was laughing helplessly as Chewie attempted a terrifying impression of Little Richard. Han grinned to himself, feeling fondness for both his newest friend and his oldest friend, out here scraping a roof on their days off. It was a hard job, but Han didn't mind, and he didn't think the other men resented the taskload, either. Out here in the sun, radio on, his body young and tan and working and strong, listening to the laughter of his friends? Han slugged water from his canteen. Not much more a man could ask for out of life.

 _Except for maybe...that._

Leia was standing on the bottom step of the sturdy new porch Han had finished over the last few weeks, carrying a towel and a thick book. She didn't see Han on the ladder, half-way up the side of the cabin.

 _Wow._

For a moment all Han could do was behold the sight: Leia Organa mostly bare, her lovely, gold-covered curves reflecting the sunlight. But as he watched her fuss with her straps and tug at her waistband, as he noticed her frown, Han felt a strange disquiet. Yes, Leia looked fantastic in the skimpy, metallic-hued bikini, unbelievable even—but also so uncomfortable, so not the person Han was growing to understand Leia to be, that he didn't truly enjoy the view. Leia was such an elegant, graceful person that it troubled Han to see her ill at ease with herself.

They'd gotten to know one another a bit over the last few weeks, over their time in the trees and drives into town for groceries and supplies and visits to the diner. They talked, bantered, he could make her laugh, but Leia kept Han at arm's length. Which was probably for the best, Han thought, as he dismissed his growing attachment to Leia as thwarted lust. Sure, it was more affectionate and admiring and harder to shake than any sexual attraction he'd felt in the past, but surely it couldn't be more than that. Leia was beautiful and smart, mysterious, funny and tough, but Han was planning on leaving in a month. What was he gonna do, sleep with an _orphaned virgin_ and then take off? Han could be opportunistic, but that was far beyond his limits.

So Han got on with his work. He kept conversation light. He accepted Leia's help, both because he liked her company and he sensed work was important to Leia. That was one thing the two of them had in common, Han thought, they both liked to take action. He explained lumber and angles and wiring and weight, when Leia asked. And boy, she did ask: Leia Organa, he discovered, was curious as a kitten. And twice as cute, swinging a hammer in her little vintage romper. (God, had he needed a chilly late-night swim in the lake after _that._ )

Based on his accumulating knowledge of Leia, Han now attributed her discomfort to the bikini's glitzy gold color. He couldn't picture Leia choosing it; maybe she'd gone shopping with Annie or Shara? Han imagined Leia giggling in Priscilla's Boutique, talked by her girlfriends into buying this flashy bathing suit. He smiled a warm, unconscious smile at the thought. And now Leia felt a little funny about her choice. Yeah, that was probably it.

He decided to help.

Han gave a loud, playful wolf-whistle just as Leia twisted at the waist to gauge how skimpy the suit was from the back. Leia jumped, her face flaming.

"What—" she spluttered. "Who do—what _are_ you, Han Solo, some kind of _peeper_?"

"Hey!" Han reared back, mouth hanging open. Scowling, he slid down the metal ladder, not bothering with the rungs, landing on his feet with a thump. He crossed to Leia in two long strides. "I ain't no creep at your window, Princess." Han seethed, pointing at the cabin. "I'm out here fixing up your castle, remember?"

Leia thrust up her chin. "And your handiwork, _Captain_ , is appreciated. But not _quite_ enough to let you ogle me."

"Who's ogling?" Han demanded. "I whistled at you!"

"I don't need your—your—sexual endorsement!"

" _Sexual endorsement?_ What the...!" Han opened his arms in appeal to the jury of alders and firs. "Hey, Your Worship, I was only trying to help—the suit looks new, is all. Uncomfortable, like." He dragged a hand through his hair and grudgingly added, "I was trying to, uh, relax you."

Leia's eyebrows shot up. On the roof, Luke sank his face into his palm. Chewie simply shook his head and went on scraping.

"Thank you," Leia said, with acid sweetness."Thank you, Han, for thinking of my comfort."

Han bridled. "Now come on—"

"I do feel so _very_ relaxed now," Leia chirped.

"You? Hah! You're 'bout as relaxed as a statue."

"You've soothed, me, Han." Leia hugged herself.

"A statue of a _nun_."

"You're like a hot mug of chamomile tea..."

"Watch that hot stuff, Princess," Han flashed her a wicked grin. "You wouldn't want to thaw."

Leia colored. "No, Han, I mean it. Your leering has truly set my mind at ease."

"Listen, Little Miss Sunbeam 1956," Han drawled, hooking a thumb in his tool-belt and cocking a hip. "You seem real set—"

"Little Miss _What?_ What does that even—"

Han held up a maddeningly patient hand. "...real set on the idea that your outfit is blowing my doors off, here. And you look, ah...real fetching in it, sure. But,"

"Fetching?" Leia spat. "Your _doors_?"

" _Buuuut,_ " Han continued, "In Baltimore—that's a big city, boys and girls—ladies wear bikinis all the time. Ladies I've, ah, known _._ And they..." Han's hands languidly shaped the air in a way that somehow suggested Baltimore bikinis, Baltimore ladies and the explicit nature of his knowledge of both. "So. Maybe you'll make hot news for the boys out here in Squaresville, Sweetheart..." Han leaned down into Leia's fiery gaze. "...but to me, you might as well be wearin' a _habit._ "

Luke and Chewie shared a look. Chewie mimed caving in his own skull with a hammer.

Leia looked at Han with brief but real hurt in her eyes, enough that he drew in a reflexive breath to apologize. He was frankly shocked—Han hadn't known, until then, that he had that kind of power—that maybe Leia sometimes thought of him as he thought of her, as a compelling, beautiful creature. Han had wanted to win, and felt so at a disadvantage with Leia in terms of want and worth that he felt justified in saying almost anything to her. But he'd had no intention of using any budding feelings Leia could have for him to hurt her.

"...Leia," Han tried. But it was too late; Leia straightened her spine and said, with a kind of pained grace, "You make it so difficult sometimes."

And she turned on her heel and walked away.

XXXXXXXXXX

Han could see down to the beach from his perch up on the roof. He tried not to look, but he glimpsed peripheral flashes of sunlight off that gold bikini. Even from up here Han could tell Leia was still squirming in the tight, garish thing. The reflected light kept drawing his eyes as she wriggled, like she was a lost hiker trying to signal for help with a mirror.

As he worked in silence, not participating in Chewie and Luke's cheerful conversation, Han realized that it wasn't even the stupid bikini that fired his imagination.

It was Leia's book.

It was the thought of being down on that beach with Leia as she read, teasing her, tugging at her braid, trailing droplets of cool water onto her pale, smooth skin. It was knowing all the things he could do to distract her from that novel. It was the thought of Leia reclining on her towel, keeping her eyes on the page, but with a playful smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. How she'd keep on trying to read, all stubborn and determined, as his touch grew more and more insistent, until—

It was the thought of _East of Eden_ falling to the sand with her little, helpless moan.

Han closed his eyes against the thought, but this only carried him further into it. Damn, it was so easy to picture, the way Leia would look up at him with those huge brown eyes, all sugar-hazed with want and surprise. And she'd breathe his name, yeah, she'd sigh _oh, I_ —

A car door slammed. Han opened his eyes. From his perch on the roof, Han could see a tall woman in a black bathing suit and broad picture hat making her way down to the beach from an eastern path he'd never noticed before. She was followed by what looked like staff, carrying a cooler, a beach umbrella, lounge seats, a portable barbecue. Han shook his head in disgusted wonder. There was a guy in a chef's coat and hat! In the middle of August, for Chrissake. The woman was crossing to Leia, who had stood up, still tugging at her bathing suit. Han couldn't make out words, just an excited squawk and then an awful, grasping hug that nearly engulfed Leia.

There was a blast of music. Coming down the path, carrying nothing heavier than a transistor radio, was that damned blond asshole quarterback.

Han sat back on his haunches. _What the fu_ —

Theo Isolder came down to the sand in his bright red trunks, set up a couple loungers. He offered one to Leia with a courtly gesture. Han felt a rush of spiteful pride in the stiff, cold way Leia shook her head, returning to her towel and her book. Theo's body language looked sullen, but he stretched out on the lounger.

The older woman—this must be Erin Isolder—came and spoke to Leia. Leia looked sharply up at her, then got up, moving to pull her towel closer to Theo's lounger. Her motions read, to Han, muted. Flat. Leia seemed not at all the spirited girl he knew from Starwood, from the woods, from the diner—hell, from just an hour ago. And just what was Leia doing spending time with these fuckin' horrible people, the people that locked her up?

"What the fuck is this?" Han barked, forgetting he had nails in his mouth. They flew from his lips, hard and sharp as his words. Luke looked up, his blond hair its own gold in the sun, to where Han pointed.

"Leia...wha..." Luke breathed.

Grimly, Han nodded.

There was pain in Luke's own voice: "I wish I knew."

Chewie weighed in that Annie had seen Erin with Leia at Priscilla's Boutique as she walked home from her shift a few weeks ago. Erin was holding up some bathing suit to Leia's body. It had seemed weird and scary, Annie had said, like something out of Snow White, an evil stepmother.

Han prickled with rage and shame at the thought: Erin Isolder picking out the skimpiest Las Vegas nothing she could find, like some pimp. And he'd _whistled_ at it. And Leia having to go along for some reason, having no money, and the blasted thing was so—and now she was sitting alongside Theo's lounger like she was chained to it, and—

Han's fingers twitched around the shaft of his hammer. "I'm goin' down there," he said, half-standing. Luke pulled him back.

"No, you're not. Listen to me, I know Leia better than you. She's got a reason for this, and when she's ready, she'll tell. But if you barge in on her plan and—Han, sit down! If you push her now-"

Theo placed his hand on Leia's head, as though she was a pet. Han brought his hammer down hard on a wooden joist. Luke jumped.

"Take it easy, Thor," Luke cautioned. "We need—"

"You hate him too," Han growled.

"I don't hate anyone," Luke said, unhappily. "Wish I could, sometimes. It seems to make people braver."

Han felt a pang for Luke. "Ah, you're brave all right, kid," he muttered. "You're just gentle."

Luke sighed. "Something's wrong. We have to figure this out from inside. But Han, believe me. If you push Leia now, you'll lose her."

Han didn't bother to deny his feelings for Leia to Luke; there seemed no point, not anymore. They watched Leia pull back, just subtly away from Theo. Han watched Theo close his fingers around Leia's braid and tug, not the teasing grip of Han's fantasy, this was sharper. Just enough to remind her. _Like a collar and leash,_ Han thought, and had to look back at his work through a red mist, for fear he would find himself down there, crossing the sand, his hands balling into vicious Corell Home fists.

"Well, _I_ hate that fucker, kid," Han said. He brought the hammer down on a roofing nail with sharp, savage accuracy. The grin he gave Luke was just as vicious. "I hate him enough for both of us."


	10. Chapter 10

Leia didn't speak to Han in the evening, when she trudged back up the path from the barbecue. To be fair, he didn't call down to her from the roof, either; Leia looked so tired, wound so tight with heat and suppressed fury, that Han was afraid he'd irrevocably damage their delicate alliance if he approached her. Han felt tense, too. He'd have liked to keep laying in the new cedar shingles, even after Luke and Chewie had left, to grind down the edge of his regret and anger. It was light out until past nine o'clock. But Han guessed a hammer pounding right above her sleeping loft wouldn't help him repair things with Leia.

So Han went out to the workshop behind the cabin. It was more a shack, but Han liked the way the setting sun crept through the cracked plank walls. And it was full of great old tools, stuff he supposed Bail Organa had used, or maybe that hermit artist Luke kept talking about; there was a splintered easel in there, a cracked set of paints, a block of fossilized modelling clay.

Han put on the radio, and started sketching plans for new kitchen cabinets and countertops. He had to bring all his spatial intelligence to the task: the surfaces and storage had to be functional, but compact enough to fit the galley space. The thought of constriction gave Han pause. He stood in thought, tapping his pencil against the vise in jittery time with "Bye Bye Love." Working inside that tiny house, right under Her Worship's tiny feet? Could get rough. Finally, Han shrugged. The work had to get done. When Han made a commitment, it was absolute, which was probably why he balked at them.

Han tinkered in the darkening shop, keeping an eye on the illuminated windows of Leia's loft. He tried not to admit to himself that he was hoping she'd come outside for one of her evening walks. His lip curled in self-disgust. What was he doing, hovering for Her Worship's favor? Han reasoned that he didn't have to apologize, exactly—it wasn't his fault! He could just tease Leia a bit (this time with more finesse), charm her into forgetting she was mad at him. She did love to laugh. But when Leia's light went out Han gave up, went back to the Falcon and fried a couple eggs on the small gas stove. Then he squeezed himself through his cramped, cool shower, and went to bed.

But Han couldn't sleep. He turned fitfully in his bunk, which was normally the most comfortable bed he'd ever slept in, maybe because it was truly his own. Near midnight, he was just beginning to sink when he heard the cabin's screen door squeak. _Gotta oil that,_ was Han's absent thought before he sat up, realizing what the sound meant. Han looked out the window alongside his bunk and saw a small shape in a short white nightgown float towards the beach. Han threw on pants and boots and an undershirt. As an afterthought he turned back to the miniature fridge in search of a peace offering. Inside was a single, green glass bottle of Coca-Cola. It would have to do, Han thought, snagging the bottleneck between his fingers.

When he caught up to Leia, ghostly in the full moonlight, she was loosening a small white rowboat from the dock. She didn't look up at his footfalls on the planks, and Han hesitated, wondering if his presence was unwelcome. But as she settled herself on one of the boat's two bench seats, Leia calmly gestured at the other. "Are you coming?"

Han swung down into the opposite seat, holding the Coke, carefully distributing his weight.

"Can you row?" Leia asked, fixing the oars in their locks.

"Can I _row._ " Han snorted, taking the shafts of the oars. He gave her his most high-wattage grin. "Princess, I was practically born in Inner Harbor." Patiently, Leia watched him fumble and paddle until the boat began a slow, silly spin. Half-smiling, Leia took the oars back. Holding up his hands, Han's grin skewed sheepish. "All right...never rowed a boat in my life."

Leia took over. Han studied the way her body moved, so small but strong, rhythmic and sure, pulling them through the dark water. When he was sure he'd understood the dynamic, Han caught her eyes. Softly he said, "Leia. Let me try."

They held one another's eyes. After a charged moment Leia handed Han the oars. She unwrapped a small white paper package, withdrawing a cherry popsicle, biting neatly into it. They rowed in silence for several minutes, Han relieved to have the physical work, the good ache spreading through his shoulders and thighs and back. With every stroke Han felt a kind of expiation, a penance that he could only hope Leia accepted.

After what seemed a long time, Leia motioned for him to stop. Around them the lake stretched, smooth and glossy black. Leia arranged herself in the bow, chest swelling with deep breath. Han leaned back, too, into the stern, arranging his long legs alongside hers. They drifted in silence, listening to the night. The stars were so close and vast that they seemed to hum; staring up at them, Han felt stunned. In Korea he'd slept outside often enough, he'd seen stars, but somehow those ones had felt farther. Maybe it was the part, he sourly thought, where he was worried about getting his head blown off, or whether he would have to do the same to someone else. That, and the violent doctrine of Corell Home, had given Han his fill of a traditional idea of God. Still, he found himself thinking now about something the kid had said: that there was a force in the world, guiding and shaping everything. That was life, Luke vowed. That was love, and grace, and art.

"What about cars?" Han had pressed, facetiously. "Is this force in cars?"

"Sure, why not?" Luke had smiled his easy smile. "Look at Millie. Isn't there something more to her?"

Han had frowned at that, not expecting Luke to be so apt an opponent. But he resumed his perfect poker mask. "Explain war. Ain't no grace there, kid, just the gun in your mitts."

"Grace is everywhere," Luke insisted, with that tranquil defiance of his. "Isn't the army where you met Chewie?"

Han had scowled and buried himself under R2's hood, into the engine, where he understood everything. He told himself, then, that there was no point in debating anything further, not when Luke got all sweetly weird and resolute. (He ignored the part where he'd have to admit Luke had been right on two deeply personal points.) But now...now, on the glassy lake, feeling helpless and weightless, edgy and safe, Han had to wonder. Here, floating next to Leia in what could be outer space, Han could almost believe in a spirit in the ether.

Abruptly Han sat up straight, retreating from a sudden well of emotion so strong that it felt to him like terror.

Han snapped the cap of the Coke off against the gunwale, hearing it clink in the bottom of the boat. He held out the bottle and after a moment Leia sat up and drank, then handed it back. Offering accepted, Han cleared his throat. "Hey, Leia?" His voice sounded too coarse against the peaceful night, but here he was, apologizing like he swore he wouldn't, like he'd never done for anyone else, over anything. Ever. "I'm sorry about—"

"Han, you...they..." Leia sealed her lips and looked off to the shore, shaking her head, scanning as though for some explanation she felt able to give. "I didn't pick it out."

"Yeah, I know."

Leia looked at him quizzically. Han bit his tongue, mindful of some _not-_ mumbo-jumbo Luke had said: don't push her. Han thought it best not to admit he knew she'd been possessively dressed by Erin Isolder. Han also thought it best not to ride that train of thought down here to the lake, where Leia had spent her day half-naked at the feet of that spoiled creep. _That's right, Solo, don't think of that, or you'll row straight back, get in the truck and go drag Isolder from his spoiled, creepy sleep._

"Eh, I could tell." Han dropped one shoulder, took a slug off the Coke. "The look was kinda...Marilyn Monroe."

He could hear a hesitant bemusement in Leia's voice. "What's wrong with Marilyn Monroe?"

Han waggled his eyebrows. "Absolutely _nothin'_."

Leia rolled her eyes and plucked the bottle from his fingers, taking a slow, deep swallow. "Marilyn's great," Han croaked, watching Leia's lovely, rolling throat, silver-white in the moonlight. "Just not like you."

Leia gave a wry, resigned smile. "What's like me?"

"Geez, I dunno." Han let a long arm drift in the cool water, then gave a small, impatient splash, gently rocking the boat. "Okay, if we're talking movies: there's Marilyn, and then there's—"

"Let me guess. An ice queen?" Leia sighed, brandishing her popsicle like a scepter. "I heard _that_ one a lot in high school." She pursed her lips, flicking a finger in the water. "Or maybe I'm the annoying, brainy kid sister?"

"No!" Han declared, his rich voice so adamant that she started. "I mean—I was thinking more of what's-er-name. The one with the, ehrm. Big dark eyes." That voice dropped to a mumble. "Y'know, all elegant and clever...pretty..." Han rubbed at his neck. "...adventurous, uh—Audrey, that's it. You're more like Audrey Hepburn, I meant."

Han glanced up to see Leia flush all the way down to her collarbones, to the edge of her nightgown, then farther. He swallowed, his imagination following the path of that shy heat, then thought maybe he'd said too much. But Leia smiled, a flash against the night, bright against her blush of pleasure. Their knees close together, the couple studied one another. Leia watched Han's mutable eyes darken to intent evergreen. Han noticed Leia's hair, braided for bed, wound round her head in a fuzzy coronet that made her look like a sleepy pixie. Han shifted slightly forward, a motion he believed subtle but was reported by a series of gentle ripples. Leia closed her eyes, seemed to inhale him. And she slowly raised her popsicle between their faces.

Han paused a moment, silently gauging her. _Don't push._ Holding her eyes, he took a solemn bite of the cherry ice and chewed so slowly and gravely that Leia giggled. The electric moment defused, Han swiped back his Coke with a comically territorial look. The two shared popsicle and Coke in companionable silence, listening to sighing trees, crickets and loons, arrhythmic waves slapping the creaking boat.

"Y'know, Leia," Han said at last, his voice low and soft. "No matter what anyo—hey. All your life, you'll have this place."

Leia's eyes went wide and dark and shiny as the lake. Suddenly she darted close, pressing her lips to Han's left cheek, stroking the right in her palm. Just as Han lifted his hand to catch hers, Leia pulled away. "You have your moments," Leia murmured, plunging her hands in the water, letting her head fall back to the stars. After a stricken moment Han did the same, leaning back into the stern, careful to assume his trademark provocative languor. But Han forgot to hide his smile. And that smile, as small and sweet as a hummingbird, seemed too delicate to freight such tender shock.


	11. Chapter 11

Han Solo didn't understand how Kes Dameron was taking the news so well. Sure, the guy kept going out back of the diner to smoke cigarette after cigarette; he'd sugared the omelets and sprinkled baking soda on French toast. But Kes wasn't running around town screaming, and in Han's books, that was the only sane response to finding out you'd knocked your girlfriend up.

When Kes had told the kitchen he was going to be a father, that he and Shara were driving into Mantell to the courthouse tomorrow to make it official, he'd looked terrified, sure—but also _thrilled_. Wedge and Wes had been surprised, but happy for their friend. Han felt an ugly lurch in his gut at the thought of the trap, marriage and child (in whatever order). The weight that seemed to him the opposite of all things _flight_.

Chewie gave Kes the same mighty back-slap as Han had got when he rescued Leia, an equivalency that didn't strike Han as fair. After all, Han had had to relive some ugly past, jump out a window into garden trash, have Millie insulted by a tiny, ponytailed ball of wrath. But _Dameron?_ Ol' Kes had just set the radio dial to WKNG's Crimson and Clover Hour for Lovers, and—

Now Han shook his head as he chalked his cue, listening to Wedge and Wes debate whether Kes Dameron's life was over. Wes Janson fretted as he fed coins into the jukebox: Could Kes still drag race on the weekends with the Rogues, get drunk, go to the drive-in, get elbow-deep into cars?

What was Kes _thinking?_ Janson demanded.

"He _wasn't_ thinking, dopey. He was feeling." Wedge shrugged as he racked the diamond for another game of nine-ball, squinting against the smoke from the cigarette clamped between his lips. "Lay off: it could be any of us. You guys know how it is, when you're—"

"Nope," Han said, and slammed forward, sinking the two and six right off the break. Wedge sighed. Solo hadn't played nearly so well in their first game, when they'd only run for a buck a rack. But now that each take was up to ten bucks, Solo was cruising the table like a great white shark. Wedge could only keep playing, hoping for the chance to win something back.

"You mean you've never..." Janson trailed off. No, that was stupid, and Solo threw him a withering look that said as much.

"Golly, Janson: what's being with a woman _like?_ " Han blinked wide, innocent eyes. His mocking show of inexperience was belied by his sure, firm stroke that banked the one-ball into the side. Wedge picked a shred of tobacco from his tongue, realizing Solo had left himself a clean rail shot from three to eight to corner pocket. Damn it, the bastard was slick.

Watching Solo prowl around the pool table in unconscious time with "Green Onions," scanning all available angles and combinations, Wedge couldn't help but admire his style. Yeah, Solo was cocky, but he liked the guy, even though he was about to leave Wedge another ten dollars poorer. And it wasn't like Wedge could count on winning the betting pool, either, not judging from the way Solo kept casting furtive eyes to the pool hall's storefront window, facing the library and town archives across Main Street. It was nearly seven, almost library closing time. Maybe Wedge Antilles wasn't a pool shark, but he was no dummy; he guessed the taller man was killing time, waiting for someone to come outside. Maybe a tiny brown-eyed bookish someone who needed a ride.

Was there still time, Wedge wondered, to change his bet from Han and Leia murdering each other to doing...whatever was clearly developing? Wedge could use the cash—his powerhouse Chev coupe ate a lot of gas—and Janson said he had spread the bet to the staff of Cloud City and several of the diner's regular customers. By now Solo and Leia's interactions, always heated in one way or another, were a regular diner attraction. The damned pool was up to three hundred bucks! God help them all if Chewie found out. He thought of Leia as some kind of deity, and Solo...well, Solo just had the unbelievable luck to be Chewie's best friend on earth.

Janson smoothed his greased hair almost anxiously. "I guess it _could_ happen to anyone. It's...y'know," He gave an inarticulate gesture."...hard to stop."

Wedge nodded from behind his foaming beer stein.

Han shrugged, knocking back his own scotch. "Who said stop? Rubbers are in the drugstore, Janson. Look it up."

Janson held up his palm. "Gee thanks, _Dad._ "

"Not likely, friend," Han shot back. "Not me. Not _that_."

"It's different for Kes," Wedge said, thoughtfully.

Han hit the three into the eight ball straight down the line into the leather netting. He smirked to himself, letting the cue ball follow the three just enough to sight it onto the nine. "It is now."

"No, I mean," Wedge said. "I mean, Kes _wants_ to marry Shara. He's had a ring for months, since before they found this out. Guy was carrying it around in his pocket. He loves her, no jive. Kes seems to dig it, the idea of being a father. A kid's not always bad news, man."

"Better him than me." Solo put the nine ball down with such a crack Wedge thought of it as an exclamation mark. He shook his head, and reached for the chain attached to his wallet.

From behind the men, her arms full of books and mimeographed notes for Ben, Leia Organa finally cleared her throat.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Y'know," Han ventured to Leia as they walked down the street to Chewie's parking lot, "you don't have to use me if you want a ride."

He winced. _Well,_ _ **that**_ _came out fine,_ snarked his inner voice. But Leia didn't notice his unintentional double-entendre, focused on embarrassment over her dependence. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to interrupt your game."

Han waved that off. "Nah, I don't mind." Although he did want to ask her: how much of that stud-talk had she heard? There were things you didn't say in front of girls. "I just meant—look, can you drive?"

"Yes," Leia said, with a prim pride. "My father taught me." Her thoughts tried to skew darker, reminding her that that very Oldsmobile had been in the garage when their house had burned. She set her jaw. "I passed my test on my first try."

Han flashed her a playful grin; in his eyes she thought she saw a fondness. "Of course you did, Your Highnessness." Then he held up a hand, signalling a return to business. "Pretty quick here I'm gonna be workin' on the inside of the cabin. I won't be headed to town as much." And God knew he wasn't about to leave her waiting for some country bus, not with Isolder circling around in his black Corvette. Han swallowed a sudden spark of nerves, fingering the key ring in his jacket like he was...for Chrissake, like he was _Dameron,_ carrying that diamond around in his pocket. "While I'm at that, you could take Millie." He cleared his throat. "If you want."

Leia stared at Han, loping alongside her, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets, gaze fixed ahead. Did Han choose to be kind mostly when he was in motion, she wondered, so he could reliably keep his eyes away from hers? Knowing how much Millie meant to Han, Leia understood this to be a significant offering—but signifying what? Trust, or perhaps mortification over the crude content of his overheard conversation? It could be guilt. He was leaving, she knew, in late October; it was already the third of September.

She tried not to think about it.

"Thank you," Leia said, and meant it. She'd grown affectionate of Millie over their commutes, grown to admire and respect the sturdy, loyal truck. "But I can't drive her."

"Whaddaya mean?" Han bristled. "Ah, I get it. Well, I'm sorry she's not a horse-drawn carria—"

"It's not _Millie,_ Han," Leia cut in. "It's me. I learned on an automatic transmission."

Han stopped walking. "I thought you said," Han growled, pointing a finger at her, "that you can drive."

"I can," Leia said, confused.

"Oh no you can't, Your Worship," Han said. "Not yet."


	12. Chapter 12

In the driver's seat, Leia was nervous. She kept wanting to look from the country road to Han's face, illuminated in slanting September sun, for reassurance. Instead she concentrated on his voice, calming and smooth as brandy: "Okay. Now, let it out."

Leia did what he said, taking her foot off the clutch, sending Millie into fits of jerks and starts. She ground her teeth.

"'S'alright, Princess." he soothed. "Try again." There was something in the timbre of Han's gentle command that warmed Leia low in her belly.

Leia worked her bottom to the very edge of the seat, planting her feet again.

"All right, remember, you're gonna feel it. You're gonna feel it grip. And then—" That voice was patient, coaxing. How could she find it so distracting?

Millie bucked again.

Frustrated, Leia screamed "Ass!" Nothing else, just that. Han laughed so hard his head fell against the back of the bench seat.

"You're doing this on purpose," Leia accused, but she was laughing, too, in spite of herself. _At_ herself. The evening was too beautiful for real anger. Han pointed innocently at his own body, lounged in the passenger seat. His booted ankle rested on his opposite knee, arm stretched along the back of the seat so far that he could touch her bare shoulder, if he chose.

Leia threw up her hands. "I don't think—"

"Good. _Don't_ think, Leia. I wish you wouldn't," Han said. "You can't plan it out; that...catch isn't something you think about." he said, and in the slanting sun his eyes seemed golden, oddly intense. "It's something you feel."

Han's sixth sense gave its sweet little strum. He narrowed his eyes in private consideration, trying to trace its appearance to whatever had triggered it. But before he could perceive that, in his instructions, there had been an echo of his earlier conversation with Wedge and Janson, he realized that Leia had Millie rolling. Rolling!

"Aw, that's it!" Han slapped his long thigh in delight. "That's right, Sweetheart!"

Leia, chewed her lip in consideration, her face so dedicated, so endearingly serious, that Han's heart gave a kick in his chest. Bravely she sped up, and made it from second to third with just a hiccup.

"Yeah-ha-hooo!" Han whooped, craning his head outside the open passenger window, into the rushing air that held the tiniest nip of fall. Leia laughed in happiness. She risked a quick, proud look at Han. He was beaming, his smile wider than she'd ever seen it, wide enough it almost disappeared his eyes. "Now: don't that feel good, Sweetheart?" he called triumphantly to her over the rushing air. "Ain't that somethin', when it's for real?"

Leia nodded excitedly. She saw what he meant; the manual transmission under her fingers seemed a conduit to Millie's heart.

"Yeah, that's right, just keep us here," Han said, his voice almost breathless. Leia felt almost breathless, too. "Let 'er hang here in third." And Leia did, moving them steadily along the deserted road. Han watched the fields, a small, contented smile playing over his face.

"My mother didn't want me to drive," Leia said, unaware she was going to say it.

Han looked back at her. "Oh yeah? Why not?"

Leia shrugged. "She thought it wasn't ladylike." Mama hadn't liked Leia driving the Olds; she would hate _this,_ Leia thought, the rattling stick-shift, the rust, Leia's public, thrumming engagement with power. But Leia didn't feel guilty—her mother's outmoded beliefs about feminine decency had driven independent Leia to near-fury in the past—but she did feel a sudden defensiveness of Breha, of the standards she clung to, the rules that made her shattered world make sense, made it safe for her only daughter in a way it hadn't been for her twin sister. "The way she was raised—girls of her class..."

Leia cut her eyes to Han, afraid she would see scorn on his mobile face. She didn't know how he'd been raised—he never spoke of his childhood, of his family—but she knew, from Chewie, that they'd met in the army. And Chewie had implied that Han's life hadn't been easy.

"My mother's twin sister—Padmé, Luke's mother—died in a car accident. Well, a few days after. She had Luke. And never woke up."

Han just listened, his face neutral.

"Luke and I were born on the same day, you know. December 12th, 1936. Isn't that...strange?" Leia laughed a slightly wild laugh, feeling rather strange herself, moving them into the twilight, moving them home. She felt a pressure to speak. "I was born in New York City. He was born here. But still; our mothers had us the same day, only about half an hour apart."

"They say twins' lives are like that, sometimes," Han said, slowly. "Weird coincidences. There were these identical twins in Korea, when I was there— " he let this mention go by casually, but Leia understood it as a kind of fair barter of personal information; as Han had once told her, he was no freeloader. "And one of 'em, Tom, was shot in the hand. Shrapnel, near took off middle finger. Real fluke, right?" Han waved his own long, expressive hands. "Next day _Tim_ takes the same damn hit. If I hadn't seen it myself, I'da never believed it."

"I think it comforted my mother," Leia said, then blinked rapidly as the road suddenly blurred. "Like some...like some last communication." Leia cleared her throat. "They were raised to be socialites. Hostesses. Wives. Mama could never understand..." she blew out a breath. "She could never understand a woman wanting anything else. So she tried not to allow it. In me."

Han tapped his fingers on his knee. He wasn't a woman, obviously, but he could understand social constriction; when he told his draft officer he wanted to be a pilot, the man had cocked his head in a kind of exasperated pity and said, "Son, you just ain't that class." Han didn't regret where he'd ended up—how could a guy regret earning friends like Chewie and Lando? And anyway he was not a nostalgic man—but Han did resent the lack of choice in his own life. He may have lacked the grades or fancy talk to make air force, but Han still thought, he _knew,_ that he sure as hell had the smarts.

"Are you thinkin' all this," Han asked, bluntly, "because of your friend?"

"No. Yes—I don't know. It's different for Shara. She always wanted to be married, to be a mother. And she'll be finished nursing school in a year. It's just—for them, it's happening a little faster."

"Yeah," Han shuddered. "Like _tomorrow._ "

"Let me guess." Leia lifted a hand from the wheel to wave at Han. "You, Mr. Mercenary, think that marriage is a ridiculous waste of money."

"I think," Han said, "that marriage is a ridiculous waste of freedom."

Leia looked thoughtful. "I agree, personally."

Han fixed her with a curious eye. "No glass slipper for you, Princess?"

"God, I hope not."

Han studied her a moment, then smiled.

"But Shara," Leia went on, "Knows what she wants."

"Oh yeah?" Han said, keeping his voice light. "What do _you_ want?"

Leia kept her own tone as playful. "Can't you tell? I want to know everything."

"Well, you're doin' great, Sweetheart," Han said, tapping the dash. "Damn, you learn fast. I'm gonna teach you cabinetmaking next, then me? I'm gonna sit back and relax." He grinned at her, lacing his hands behind his head.

Leia smiled at him, so handsome and smug in the last of the evening light. "No, Han: you're going to teach me nine-ball next. That Wedge Antilles looks like a real mark."


	13. Chapter 13

Author's Note: Thanks so very much for the reviews and support! Aw. You make it so much fun. Sorry for today's monster update: I won't be around for a couple weeks, so here's a crazy marathon of 1950s Han/Leia. Enjoy! Or not. You know, do whatever you do. Xoxo!

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September 9, 1956. Chewie had planned a sort of early Thanksgiving. He roasted some stuffed hens with the herbs he grew on his roof, some root vegetables, baked apple pies. Simple, perfect. Smoothing his wild red beard in satisfaction, Chewie surveyed the long table lined with his friends, groaning under the weight of his food. The Rogues had pushed all the diner's freestanding tables together to make a single long surface. Annie and Suzette covered this makeshift banquet table with butcher's paper that Annie trimmed in paper lace. The waitresses arranged low bunches of mellow marigolds, and placed squat candles all down the table's length. With the overhead fluorescent lights turned off, the effect was surprisingly beautiful.

There was, Chewie felt, much to celebrate: Kes and Shara were expectant newlyweds; business at the diner had surpassed his wildest expectations; he'd just invested in a television set to entertain his customers. Han was finally out of Baltimore, out of the self-destructive spiral he'd been in working the docks. Successful, challenging himself, his war over and surrounded by friends, Chewie was happier than he'd ever been.

Tonight here were Annie and Suzette, the Rogues and their girls. Luke. Young Skywalker had grown too thin since he'd started working with his father; Chewie would fatten him. Calrissian hadn't shown for dinner, but Chewie knew he would appear after, when Annie had begged Chewie to let them watch Elvis on the Ed Sullivan Show. And then there were Han and Leia. Because they could go so quickly from peace to combat, Chewie had been apprehensive about seating the two next to one another. But all through dinner they hadn't bickered—they were quieter than normal with each other, but not out of anger. Every time one of them glanced away, the other would chance a sneaky look; all evening their faces had registered a variety of expressions: heated, shy, affectionate, amused, impatient, hopeful.

Han had no idea his mobile face was giving him away. He slouched in his seat, twisting the stem of his wineglass between his fingers, trying not to look at Leia in the candlelight. It wasn't like they were on a date, Han sternly told himself. Yeah, okay, he'd shaved extra-carefully before they left. Maybe he'd put on a little after-shave. _Possibly_ he'd looked for his comb awhile before he gave up and dragged his fingers through his damp mop. Yeah, so what?

But...tonight Leia was wearing another vintage dress. This one, in emerald velvet, cinched her tiny waist and had a heart-shaped neckline—called a _sweetheart_ , Leia had said in Han's hearing (then blushed), when Annie complimented her on it—that highlighted her creamy bust. Her hair was pinned in a loose bun, enticing strands coming undone. Han knew this was from their drive into town with the windows rolled down, but it was so easy to pretend a sweeter reason for Leia's lovely dishevelment. She smelled like roses and vanilla at once and all through dinner, listening to Leia laugh, Han felt an unravelling of some old, hard knot in his chest.

It wasn't that Han _liked_ the knot. It was a relief, this slackening, which he helped along by gulping his wine. More and more, since he'd met Leia, Han felt he could breathe at a new, exhilarating depth. But with this expansion came a weightless disorientation every time Leia looked up at him. Tonight Leia's eyes were so big and starry. Tonight, every time Leia smiled or spoke, she threaded another tangled bit of Han loose. Leia _pulled_ him, and it was an irresistible hurt. Part of Han wanted to truss his heart back up in that tight, obscuring skein, afraid of what was underneath the binding, what she'd see, what she'd free in him if she got too close. And the other part? Wanted to drag Leia up the fire escape to the diner roof, kiss her senseless under that big gold moon.

This internal civil war drove Han to fill and refill his glass.

But with the alcohol came a voice. Not his mind-voice; that voice could be cynical, but it was always on Han's side. This other voice was a hiss from the past, from the Home, it showed up when Han drank too much. It said things like, _You think you're good enough for_ _ **her**_ _? Don't make me laugh._ It reminded him of the laundry shifts, or those couple of awful years, just back from the war, mostly drunk and working the Baltimore docks. It taunted, _What about the Hutts?_ It reminded him of all those cheap teenage afternoons he'd spent with the rich older girls on Honeysuckle Lane. It reminded Han of the first time he'd shot someone in Korea, nineteen years old. _Real tough, Solo. You threw up into the snow._

What the hell did he know? What made him think he could measure up now?

Han usually dealt with painful thoughts and memories by throwing himself into motion—his body into work or exercise or sex. Driving Millie. Now he shifted in his seat, looking across the table at Kes and Shara, the way they sat so close that their sides were pressed together. Kes' arm wrapped around his new wife's shoulders, her head on his chest. Married, now; that ball and chain. But Kes didn't look dragged down by Shara, Han noted. He looked...oriented. Content.

When Leia stood to help Chewie and Annie clean up, Han placed his fingertips—just his splayed fingertips—on the small of her back. He didn't know he was going to do it. Han watched his own hand rising to steady her. To claim her? He didn't know for sure. All Han knew was he liked the feel of her warm velvet beneath his fingers. When he touched her, he felt anchored.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

When Elvis came onscreen at eight o'clock, all Annie could do was hop. Up and down, palms pressed to her cheeks, gone as pink as the party dress Suzette had sewed for her. Everyone laughed fondly, trying to calm their adopted little sister; Luke led her into a friendly two-step to "Hound Dog." That didn't help Annie's overwrought state, or the laughter, because everyone except Luke had noticed that Annie's crush on the young blond artist was almost as acute as the one she had on Elvis.

Luke was thinner, Leia thought, his face drawn, paler. She hadn't seen him much over the last of the summer, since he'd been at work at Empire. Tonight Luke ate, he joked and smiled with Leia, but his blue eyes held a haunted look. Leia could feel him keeping her at a distance, as though he felt himself contagious, or contaminated. She knew Ben hadn't seen Luke either; the old hermit kept Luke's canvases and sculptures safe in his cabin, away from Anakin Skywalker, but he couldn't separate Luke himself from his overbearing father.

Leia glanced at the man leaning against the wall across the room. Han, too, had been acting strangely tonight, not at all his brash and swaggering self. He hadn't eaten much of Chewie's magnificent meal, and normally Han ate like a locust, especially since he'd spent all day sawing and hauling wood. Leia almost wanted to touch a wrist to Han's forehead, to see if he was feverish. He looked it now, watching her laugh with Shara and Annie, hectic color high on his cheekbones, his eyes golden and smouldering.

Four times tonight, at dinner, he'd turned to her and opened his mouth, only to close it with a tiny shake of his head. Han seemed to be waiting for Leia to speak something first, but she didn't know what that something was.

Or so Leia told herself. The truth was, lately it seemed as though she and Han shared some private, anticipatory understanding. It was there in the way they drank coffee together on her new porch, in the mornings. In the way that he knocked Leia's diner table lightly with his knuckles when he passed to make her look up from her book, to catch his wink. In the way she'd learned of Han's love for fresh fruit, which he'd said you could never get when he was a boy in the city, in the Depression. Recently Leia had brought Han a ripe peach from Ben Kenobi's orchard. Han had laughed to himself as he ate it, a soft closed-eye laugh of delight and disbelief, even a kind of awed lust that warmed Leia for weeks.

As everyone on the improvised dance floor moved close at the opening of "Love Me Tender," Han appeared next to her. Frowning at his capable hands, he muttered, "Hey, Princess, d'you wanna da-"

"Han, you old pirate," came a silky voice, "is _this_ the princess you go on about at poker?"

The handsome man behind them was the height of flashy fashion in black slacks, a red shirt, and a polka-dot sports jacket with a white carnation. His feet were in black-and-white bucks. His whole being was so groomed as to seem burnished, his skin gleaming, black hair impeccably waved, mustache trimmed. He smiled, slowly, at Leia, revealing white and even teeth. Leia both liked and distrusted him at once.

"I...don't...do that," Han's neck reddened. "Uh. Leia, this is—"

But the dapper, mustachioed man had already brought Leia's delicate hand to his lips. "I'm Lando Calrissian. And _you_ are...absolutely beautiful."

Han seemed to tauten all over, narrowing his eyes and pressing his lips together.

Leia smiled patiently. "Thank you."

"Han told it all wrong; you're not a princess, Leia. _You_ are a queen." Lando's smile gilded across his lips again. "Listen, what are you doing with this two-bit hustler? You truly belong with us—" with a wave of his arm, Lando indicated the entourage of attractive women he'd brought along—"among the clouds."

Wedging his broad shoulders between Leia and Lando, Han pointedly took Leia's hand, firmly folding his own around it. "Alright," Han said; he was smiling at his old friend and platoon-mate, but tensely. "Alright, you old smoothie." Brandishing their interlocked hands, Han led Leia away from the improvised dance floor. Easy laughter in his voice, Lando called after them, "What have you done with my lady?"

Han snapped back, "Hey, you lost her to me fair and square!"

No one watching was sure just which lady they were talking about.

XXXXXXXXXX

When the television program ended, Chewie left to walk Annie home, but the party was just getting started. Lando had brought a serious liquor cache, and he shared it generously, setting up a makeshift bar in one of the booths. He was a convivial and gifted host, lobbing cheerful, teasing banter, flirtatious compliments. The Rogues and their girls dived into a sea of free spirits, all of it the best quality, Lando preeningly pointed out. Only Luke and Shara stuck to punch. Leia, for her part, soon found herself gin-tipsy.

Before he took Han outside to show him the speeds R2 could hit, Luke fed the jukebox so much change that there'd be continuous music for at least a week. It was as though he couldn't rid himself of Empire's wages fast enough. In her gently intoxicated state, the rock 'n' roll affected Leia as an itch. Back on the dance floor, she whirled among Shara and Kes, Wedge and Janson and their girls. Lando was out there too with a bevy of girls, some of whom Leia recognized from high school, some of them new, including a voluptuous blonde who looked like Marilyn Monroe. When Jerry Lee Lewis came on the jukebox with "Little Queenie," Lando glided close to Leia, crooking a beckoning finger. "C'mon, Queenie," Lando purred. "Let's shake it."

Lando was as smooth a dancer as he was a talker and dresser, and Leia had shed the inhibitions that kept her restrained. She couldn't control the tap in her feet, the sway in her hips. As Leia met his every step, Lando's expression turned from slick charm to surprise, then his face lit up in a huge, genuine grin. He dropped the sly streak, dancing with Leia for the sheer fun of finding her such a light and graceful partner.

When Han came back into the diner, he was feeling better. Watching Luke's car blaze down the block and back, Han remembered that _he'd_ done that, used his own ingenuity and skill to help his friend out. Nothing improved Han's sense of self-worth like being useful, being capable. He was laughing as he ambled back into the noise and smoke with Luke, Luke raving about Han's handiwork. And then Han stopped, transfixed. Leia was at the center of a clapping, admiring group, twirling under Lando's wrist.

The two moved well out there, together, easy and free and fast in a way that Han had never been able to master. The sight of Leia, flushed and laughing in her pretty dress, tugged savagely hard on the cord around Han's heart. So sharp it ached. He was unaware that he was being watched by others, that his face broadcast his emotions as clearly as the images on Chewie's new television. Han didn't know that he stood there with his eyes shifting colors, alternating between hungry and admiring and tortured.


	14. Chapter 14

When the song ended, Leia went to the ladies' washroom to catch her breath. Lando found Han at the back of the crowd, offering his old friend a solid clap on the back. "You got a yourself a real little sparker there," Lando said.

"Fuck off," Han growled into his whiskey. He was slightly too drunk to bother with their usual competitive witticisms.

Lando laughed out loud. "Aw, buddy, take it easy! It was just a dance."

"She can dance with anyone she wants," Han said. "I'm not her jailer."

"I know, I know," Lando soothed, holding up his palms. "Hands off your girl."

"Leia ain't my girl." Han said it fast, then looked into his glass in inarticulate misery.

Lando gave Han a knowing, indulgent smile. "Then you better get on it, Solo. She's the real thing."

Giving Han a friendly, gentle push to the shoulder, Lando melted back into the crowd, keeping an eye out for Janson. Lando Calrissian was a gambler, but he bet shrewd. Now that he'd sussed this Han/Leia business for himself, he was definitely gonna get a piece of that action.

XXXXXXXXXX

The women's bathroom at the diner was shaped like a capital L, with the stalls down the long side and mirrored sinks along the base. Leia locked herself in a stall and sat on the closed seat to catch her breath. It had been fun, giddy fun, dancing with Lando. After the song was over he'd kissed her hand again; this time Leia could feel both his admiration but also his fraternal intentions. Lando was a flirt, but posed her no romantic threat.

She heard the bathroom door open, female voices. Leia stood, about to let herself out of the stall when she heard one of them ask, "Which one is Solo?" Leia's hand stopped half-way to the latch.

The girls erupted in raucous laughter. Too many voices for Leia to place chattered at once, asking each other: Have you seen him working? Fixing things around the diner, replacing engine parts in the parking lot? Ooooh, those deft fingers. Some liked his height, the length of his legs emphasized by that stripe of valour. Or the thigh-hug of his leather tool belt. The evocative mark on Han's chin was popular, though no one could explain exactly why. His perfect posterior was referenced in a way so matter-of-fact that it was almost dismissive: _Everyone_ likes _that_.

Leia smiled, thinking that if Han heard this he'd be absolutely insufferable. For her part, if she was asked, Leia decided that she'd have mentioned his pretty eyes. Secretly she marvelled at the changes in their color, green to gold to amber to grey, wondered how they corresponded to his labile moods.

"Wait. You mean that man with the stripy...oh. He's so—he— _hair_ ," the first girl breathed. "And with the... _tall._ "

Indulgent laughter greeted her babbling. "Take it easy, girl," Willa Calrissian laughed. Lando's beautiful elder sister was also Cloud City's staff manager.

"Sorry, Marie. Solo is the Ice Queen's boyfriend." Leia froze. She recognized the jaded voice of Ruby, a former high school classmate, the head cheerleader _._ She used to go steady with Theo Isolder.

"Don't call her that." Willa said, staunchly. "Show some respect."

"It's a joke, Will. Anyone can see Leia Organa's too cold for Han Solo. And Solo's too common for her."

Leia felt angrier for Han than for herself. She appreciated it when Willa snapped, "Shut up with that talk, Ruby. I said it and I meant it. Those are two good people. Shut your mouth or you're off my crew, and you _know_ you don't need another demerit in your employment file."

"I was just—"

"Cut it, Rube." A new voice cut in, the sultry tones of the Marilyn Monroe look-alike, the club's singer. "Leia doesn't strike me like a snob. And Solo is a lot of things, but common ain't one of 'em."

"Fine, Donna! Solo's a complete pain in the a—" Ruby broke off, no doubt glancing at Willa. "Er, _difficult._ Okay? He's difficult!"

Stony silence.

"No, he is!" Ruby protested. "Months ago I told him Threkin Horm wants in on his poker game. And Solo's been _ignoring_ this, coming and going as he wants. It drives Threkin nuts. Which makes _my_ life harder."

Leia shuddered. Ruby was Threkin Horm's mistress? _Ugh._

Ruby puffed an irritated breath. "Every time I remind Solo he gets grouchy. He's all," Ruby dropped her voice to a growl: " _Your sugar daddy is not my problem, Ruby_ and _That worm gets zero of my dollars, Ruby,_ and _Beat it, Ruby, unless you're here to count fuckin' cards for me._ "

Leia muffled a laugh. Han, of all people, would loathe Threkin Horm.

"You asked him while he was playing cards _?_ " Willa snorted. "Oh, Rube."

"Oh please, Willa. It was poker with the Rogues, it wasn't like Solo was officiating a funeral. Anyway, didn't he win that hulk in a card game from your brother?" Ruby responded. "Last week I told him again, said Threkin is a bad enemy and wants his slot. Solo was quiet for _ever,_ just looking at me."

Leia could visualize just the look: arms crossed at the chest, eyes a gray as cool and hard as granite.

"Finally he goes _Sure, Rube._ His pretty voice smooth as silk. And I think he's finally gonna be reasonable and then he says, _You tell Horm I_ _got his slot right here._ And he gives me the finger. Doesn't even look up from his cards. I thought Janson was going to burst his guts."

Donna and Willa laughed. Leia dropped her face into her hands, breathing laughter into her palms at the mental picture. Who did Horm think he was, threatening Han? Not to mention forcing Ruby to do the confrontational dirty work against one of the more intimidating and obstinate people Leia had ever met. At last Willa said, "Solo's stubborn, sure. Impatient. Mouthy. But he's also smart. Independent. That's the thing. You talk to Solo like he's a dope, or a servant, he gets salty."

Donna added, "But he likes to be helpful."

"I hear you find lots of people _helpful_ , Don." Ruby said, nastily.

"I don't make any secret about how I live, Ruby," Donna replied, untroubled.

Leia caught her breath. Wait. Donna...and Han?

 _Her_ Han?

Sharply, Leia shook her head. No, not _her_ Han but...but, Han _Solo?_ Leia swallowed a cruel, unexpected pang.

Willa mused, "Han _does_ like to be helpful. He overhauled the entire lighting and shelving system in Cloud City, for me. On his time, for free, though he warned me not to tell anyone that." She chuckled. "Now it's much better, no more weird dark corners. Whenever I see him I tell him how ingenious it is, how functional. He likes the praise, that one. Like a boy." Willa paused, thoughtful. "He's actually quite...well, sweet. In a moody way."

Donna laughed. "Yeah, that cynic routine? That mercenary bit? Hilarious. You should hear him after a few drinks, the way he talks about his friends. Guy's a complete sap."

"Solo's not sappy for Leia Organa," Ruby said. Leia's head jerked up. "Haven't you heard their fights?"

"Solo's _hopelessly_ sappy for Leia Organa," Willa snapped. "Haven't _you_ heard their fights?"

Leia caught her breath.

"Oh, right. I can just see the wedding invitations."

"Who's talking marriage, Rube?" Donna purred. "Leia seems like a modern girl." Leia heard the emphatic click of a lipstick lid. "She doesn't have to wear Solo's ring to let him be, ah, _helpful_ to her once in a while."

Leia felt like she'd been bathed in lightning.

"She's obviously a virgin." Ruby scoffed.

Oh, God, Leia's face was fire. Leia _was_ a modern girl, in that she read too widely to accept the lectures of her mother's generation about female virginity equating to moral virtue. But it was one thing to believe that one's sexual experience, or lack of it, was irrelevant in the abstract; it was quite another to hear one's (increasingly tedious) virginity discussed in a group.

"So what?" Donna retorted. "What does virginity even mean in terms of a life?"

"You'd trust _him_ with a virgin?" Ruby hooted.

"Solo? I'd recommend him to anyone, that way, virgin or not," Donna said, pointedly. "You know as well as I do that some guys are not exactly, uh, master mechanics. A few are real creeps—listen up, Marie, don't you go anywhere with those football jerks. But Solo is..." Donna trailed suggestively off. " _Thorough._ "

"Willa just said he was impatient and bullheaded," Ruby sneered.

"Not in _bed,_ goofy," Donna said. "In bed, Han Solo is hot as all nine hells. Not that we ever actually went to bed...look, that man sets standards for himself. Very. High. Standards." Leia heard the snap of a lighter, the hiss and pop of inhalation. "So, ladies. Would I trust Solo to make it good for Leia? Absolutely."

Leia felt a raw, hot wave low in her gut. Han _did_ have standards, hadn't Leia seen them all summer in his exact, graceful labour? She thought of the way he pulled a pencil from behind his ear, making calculations on a small spiral pad. Watching him concentrate, Leia had reflected that she hadn't expected her rough-edged rescuer to be so painstaking and precise, so...committed. Leia was fascinated at this glimpse of the disciplined man behind Han's cocky, swaggering persona. But she had to be covert with her observation; Han had the unsettling habit of suddenly looking up to trap her eye. When he did, Han never failed to lend her one of his lopsided grins, some of them laden with insinuation.

Her eyes fell closed, helplessly. Now she was picturing something else, something she'd witnessed just that morning. She'd woken early to see Han from her window, out in the dawn. He was hanging from a branch, doing chin-ups, his motions smooth and regular. He was shirtless, his unbelted trousers slung low. As Leia watched the flex of Han's arms, saw his bare chest and abdomen for the first time, she'd felt a sheet of flame so deep, so low and new, she'd almost leaped back from the glass. Though she'd tried, Leia had been unable to banish the sight of him from her mind, the grace and power of Han's frame working its own weight.

"Oh yeah? If he's so _good_ , why'd you give him up?" Ruby provoked.

Donna yawned. "He ain't mine, chickie, and I ain't his. Our thing ran its course; we're cool."

"Well, Lando said Solo is a real wolf. They used to run around Baltimore together, drinking and competing for girls. Solo's not moony for Leia, he just hates losing." Ruby gave a hard little laugh. "Oh my god, did you see his face when Leia and Lando were dancing? He was as green as her weird old dress—"

Leia was hit with pain so strong she pressed her forehead against the cool steel door. Wolf? Competing? Losing. Oh, the night drifting on the lake, the driving lessons, the sweetness of that peach. Afternoons working in the sunlight, how much she'd learned to fix. What she'd thought was a pooling warmth between them...oh.

Why did she want to cry?

Willa said, "That's _it,_ you sour little cow. You're off the schedule for the weekend."

"What?! That's when I make my best tips!"

"Should have thought of that before you ran your mean mouth. D'you know what happened to that girl? And here she is still living life. That's brave, okay? Leia looks real nice. Not everyone gets their clothes bought by Threkin Horm."

With that, the door emphatically opened and closed. Still in the stall, her shoulders bowed, Leia didn't hear the end of the women's conversation.

"You're wrong, Rube," Donna said, quietly, as they walked back into the party. "Solo's not out to notch Leia as some mark. She paused, subtly inclining her chin at where Han Solo leaned alone against a wall, swirling a drink, looking fidgety and lost, eyes scanning the room for someone missing. "He's in love with her."

Gasps, squeals, even from levelheaded Willa, even from Ruby: "He _told_ you that?"

"Naaaah," Donna said. And just as the excitement was dying down she added, offhand, "I'm gonna tell _him_. I've got good money riding on them."


	15. Chapter 15

Leia walked out of the bathroom, her shoulders straight, her makeup fixed. Her spine upright, as her mother had taught. She felt herself radiating a protective coldness, a glacial emotional control she'd learned in childhood. She stood apart from her knot of friends. Leia wanted to go home, but she'd come into town with Han, and the last thing she wanted to do now, in her wounded state, was be alone with him. She looked for Luke, but he was dancing with one of Lando's staff, a sweet-looking blonde. Maybe that was Marie?

"You Send Me" came on the jukebox, then, and the mood of the room skewed romantic.

"Go on, Solo," Janson goaded, cutting his eyes at Leia. "Don't be a wimp."

"Yeah, man," Wedge added, though he didn't see why he was encouraging the very outcome he'd bet against. What the hell, he thought, squeezing his girl Marcie close. "Go for it."

But Han didn't move from his position, leaning against the wall.

"What the fuck is your problem, man?" Janson slurred at Han. "Weren't you a soldier?"

Han fixed Janson with a caustic, warning eye. This was, everyone knew, the precursor to the Solo Finger. Janson shut his mouth, then opened it again in spite of himself. "Lookit'er," Janson pleaded. "Standin' all alone." It was true. Leia had walked back into the room, looking pale, and now she was standing down the wall by herself.

Shara said, gently, "Han, Leia would love it if you asked her."

Han gave Shara a searching look, then threw back the last of his whiskey and strode forward.

"Propose while you're out there," Kes called after him, mindful of his playful bet that Solo and Leia would be married by Christmas.

"Yeah," Janson added. "Don't do how Dameron did!"

Kes gave Janson a hard poke in the gut.

XXXXXXXXXX

A hand extended in front of Leia. She looked up into Han's face, his deeply lidded eyes gone the color of mossy stone. There was a light there, in Han's expression; a gleam of determination, of hope and want. He inclined his head at the dancing couples and offered her the slightest, slanting grin of invitation.

He looked so happy, so trustworthy that Leia half-reached for Han's hand before the conversation she'd overheard in the washroom came back to her. _Wolf. Competing with Lando for girls._ How many of those girls had been drawn in by those pretty eyes, that hipshot walk, that offbeat, crooked smile? That earnest, boyish ruse probably played beautifully against his rugged appearance, Leia thought, with her new cynicism, her tipsiness, her new fear. She sensed Wedge and Wes watching. Had Han had been dared to ask her? Was he mocking her? All this slow, sweet time they'd been growing closer, was Han just planning to score her, carve an extra notch into one of those boards he'd scoured with sandpaper? A lump rose in her throat, but still Leia got the words out, formal and cold, a lacerating social correctness in her tone that carried even over the music, to their friends.

"With you? I couldn't possibly."

Han's hopeful expression slipped, leaving a wounded disbelief in its place. But he hid it fast, the soft, open youth's face hardening into an unreadable mask. And with the vanished vulnerability Leia felt the sudden loss of the closeness between them, the warmth, the sense they shared a secret, budding covenant.

Han tossed his hair back.

"Well, don't get all mushy on me," Han sneered, and turned on one booted heel. Ignoring the murmurs from onlookers, he loped across the checkered floor. His pace was defiantly lazy, even easy, but as Han left the diner he snagged a bottle of Lando's whiskey between two fingers with a tellingly harsh jerk.

XXXXXXXXXX

Up on the roof, Han slugged at the bottle of Jameson's, unable to stop replaying Leia's cool dismissal. _With you? I couldn't possibly._ He was badly hurt, even stunned. _With you?_ She said it right in view of everyone. _I couldn't possibly._ How could he have been so wrong, to think Leia and a guy like...well, fuck it. At least now he knew. He could finish the stupid job and go.

He just wished the Corell Home voice would stop its laughter.

Behind him a door opened, closed. "Is this where you bring your real girlfriends?" a familiar voice joked.

"No," Han said, shortly, and swallowed more whiskey. This was where Han had used to come to think before he had moved out to the lake. To look at the sky. To imagine touching a freedom he hadn't yet reached. He'd forgotten about chasing that freedom, lately, Han thought bitterly, all caught up in stupid daydreams about Leia Organa. Well, enough of _that._

Han watched Donna smooth her tight pencil skirt to sit beside him. He supposed he knew why she was here, in search of an impersonal, mutually satisfying tryst—and he wasn't opposed to it, though he wasn't feeling exactly eager, either. He felt a bit like a snuffed-out candle, but this was probably what he needed to get that snobby little pixie out of his system. Sure enough, Donna leaned over, trailing her fingers up the inside of his thigh, and higher.

But instead of grinning and leaning back towards her, like he always had, Han...flinched. Flinched, and stopped her _._ Donna looked at her wrist, caught in his hand, then hugged her fishnet-stockinged knees and laughed. "That was a test, Solo. I've been wondering how long you could keep it up."

A _test?_ Han's eyebrows shot up. He leaned across to her then, growling "Hell, I'll show you _keep it_ _up_ ," but Donna pushed him affectionately away.

"Naaah, you got nothing to prove, not to me. That's been great." She took his bottle and drank. "I _meant,_ I wondered how long you'd go on lying to yourself." Donna spoke with slow and deliberate words, as though to a child. "Han. It's okay. You want something—someone—else."

He blinked at her, feeling his mouth form a quizzical _O_.

"Don't act like you don't know what I mean," Donna said, suddenly impatient. "Aren't you sick of that? Look, you gotta get after it, get after everything. I do; I will. And I'm not done." For a moment the torch singer's impassive expression gave way to genuine emotion. Han saw, then, that Donna had devoted herself to the constant accumulation of pleasure to stack against some private grief. _Well,_ Han thought, _there were worse ways to cope with life._

"Aaaah," Han drawled, "No big thing. She ain't up for it. Kind of a prude."

More gently, Donna took his chin in her hand. Her touch was maternal, now. "Han," she murmured. "Stop. You're in love."

Han saw, in a flash, another female face. It was a face he knew well. A younger, more delicate face than Donna's but even more wilful, ringed in a cinnamon crown of braids. Glowing with exertion and pleasure as she danced. Gazing up at him as they worked, or walked in the woods, or fought. _Someone else._

Sure, he wanted her. Han was drunk enough to admit that. He wanted Leia Organa, he wanted her like no one else. But...love? No, no, that was nuts. Love wasn't a thing Han Solo felt, or wanted, or sought. Han leaned forward, wielding an argumentative finger, but then he pictured that face again. And at the thought of Leia's lovely, defiant, clever face Han's heart clenched, then bucked painfully in his chest.

Han's luck-gut tingled. His mind-voice said, _Oh, fuck._ He tried to talk, and sat back into his sudden loss of breath.

Donna laughed, again. "To Leia Organa," she said, and clinked the whiskey bottle with a long red fingernail. Then she slugged a drink back, kissed his cheek and left, leaving Han to the nearly-full bottle and his thoughts.

Han didn't go back to Alder Glen, that night. From the roof, he watched everyone leave, Leia casting a quick, worried look at Millie, still in the parking lot. She left with Luke. At about three am Han lurched down the fire escape straight _wrecked,_ stone fucked up. He fell through Chewie's open bedroom window onto the floor hard enough to hurt, and the yelp woke Chewie up, the yelp and thump of Han's body. Chewie rolled out of his cot to find Han laid out on his ass, mute and stunned, smelling of whiskey. He'd certainly seen Han under the influence, but not this drunk since Korea, or right after. These days Han rarely drank to excess; he made a point of not being helpless.

When Chewie bent to hoist Han to his feet, Han waved him off, sitting slowly up and resting his elbows on his bent knees. "Chewie," he croaked. "I'm—I think I'm."

"Drunk?" Chewie snorted. "You think?" Then Chewie saw Han's face, white and bleak. He crouched next to his friend. "Are you all right?"

Han passed a shaking hand over his eyes, and with his eyes hidden, it seemed, Han felt he could speak. "I'm in love, Chewie," he said, as though he'd been diagnosed with something awful. "With..." Han went on. "With—aw hell, Chewie, I'm in love with..." Han's crooked lips gave an agonized twitch.

Chewie sat back on his haunches. He knew Han had a problem with attachments, that they seemed to make him itch. He'd roomed with Han and Lando in Baltimore after they were demobbed from the army, he knew those two went out drinking and cruising girls. Chewie had never seen Han mistreat a woman; he seemed decent, even courteous. But Han was always in control of himself with women, investing no emotion. Chewie had wondered, sometimes, why Han bothered. For sex, Chewie supposed, Han had lots of that—sound carried in their cheap apartment. But even then it was only the girls Chewie heard through the walls and the pillow he clamped over his ears, only the girls losing themselves in curses and moans, not Han. In the mornings, girls left Han's room dazed and grinning, while Han seemed as resolutely detached as he always did. Han seemed to give himself over to nothing.

Until lately. Until Leia.

Just this morning, while they were adjusting the television aerial on the flat diner roof, Chewie had watched Han's eyes track a tiny woman down the street, making her brisk way to the library. Han said nothing, but longing poured off him in waves. Chewie knew Han loved Leia, but he'd never expected Han to _say_ it. Never even thought Han could consciously think it, admit it to himself let alone anyone else. Chewie pondered the irony that the truth Han had been drinking so hard to escape was now freed as a result.

Chewie tilted his head. "With Leia."

Han nodded, covering his face with his hands. Chewie thought a moment, then shrugged, rumbled a single syllable. Slowly Han's face appeared above his fingers, like an outraged sunrise. " _Good?_ You think that's...good."

Stubbornly, Chewie folded his arms and nodded. Han stared, ran his hands through his hair, then bared a smile as bright and sharp as a blade. "Yeah, great."

Chewie growled.

"No, no, you're right, big guy!" Han slapped his palms on his long thighs. "Leia and me. Save the fuckin' date, pal."

"Cut it out," Chewie warned, but Han went on, his tone slurred and harsh.

"Nah, why? We're a perfect match! She's classy; I grew up in an orphanage. She's brilliant, reads three books a week, meanwhile I'm fixin' fridges while jocks toss lettuce at me. Oh, oh—" Han snapped his fingers. "You know what she'd really love about me? This brave, principled girl? That I ran like a punk outta Baltimore so Jeb Hutt didn't sink me at the bottom of the harbor."

Chewie agreed that Leia _was_ a principled person, so she probably would like Han _more_ if he told her the specifics of what he'd done to so anger Jeb Hutt. But Han didn't hear Chewie; the younger man had raised his voice until he was almost yelling, with a vicious, self-lacerating zest that raised eerie bumps on Chewie's skin.

"But what the hell, right buddy? I like them odds! I'm gonna go for it: shoot the fuckin' moon!" Han's laugh was jagged, its cruel edge turned on himself. "Wait'll she sees the ring I've bought her: ahhh, Chewie, it's so big and bright, it's like a _star—_ "

Han waved a hand at the ceiling. His gesture was mocking, but his voice cracked on "star," making the word almost a raw, animal howl. Han tried to hide this in another awful laugh.

To cut off Han's torrent of self-abuse Chewie placed his huge palm on the crown of Han's head, and like a poultice, the warmth seemed to draw out some of his friend's bitterness. For a long moment, Han sat, elbows on his bent knees, staring at a spot between his booted feet. To Chewie, Han looked very young. High on the ridge of his cheek gathered a shadowy bruise. Finally Han spoke, in a voice so small and soft that Chewie leaned closer to hear him. "Does _everyone_ know?" Han asked, with genuine pain. "Is it—is everyone—am I a joke?"

Chewie tilted his head. Thought of their fights, the barbed words, the snapping eyes, the upthrust fingers and stormings off and mutual defiant tosses of hair. So. Many. Hair-tosses: Chewie sometimes felt tempted to toss his own red mane, just to show the pair who was all-time hair-boss. He thought of the crackling, leaping energy between the pair. Of Wedge's raised eyebrows, Luke's wryly rolled eyes, Wes' bet. Even Mr. Rieekan and old Ben—even Mon damn Mothma, the editor of the _New Hope Gazette_ —had looked at the fighting couple askance once or twice when they were in for breakfast. But no one was laughing at Han, not in the pitiful way Han thought. Chewie was sure of that. Or, if they were, he'd explain, with a little muscle, why it was rude to laugh at a man in love.

"You're a lot of things," Chewie muttered, "but you're no joke." Chewie pulled his friend to his feet, restored Han to his full-grown height. "And, no. Not everyone knows." As he steered Han to the couch to sleep it off, Chewie reflected that he hadn't really lied to his best friend; there was at least one person, Chewie was certain, that didn't know Han Solo was in love with Leia Organa. And that was Leia herself. In fact, Chewie doubted she even knew she loved Han back.


	16. Chapter 16

Han's loneliness was so deep, so habitual, that he didn't consciously know it for what it was. He had, long ago in the orphans' home, and on the streets, then in Korea, converted loneliness into independence, self-reliance, cynicism, toughness. Desperation into a wild inventiveness. He was so creative and effective at mechanical conversions for a reason: early emotional desperation demanded his first bypasses of essential systems in a life that would be defined by vital, spontaneous modification.

But even if he was largely unconscious of it, the longing to be part of something, to have something for himself, was there, even if transformed into lust, avariciousness, into cocky hustle. It was also there, in a purer form, in the awed pull he'd felt as a child when he looked up to the sky, at a passing plane, from Corell Home's grubby, barbed-wire exercise yard. He'd never admit this, never, even under torture—but the first time he hit the sky, heading to Korea, he wanted to cry. Han hadn't cried since he was a tiny child, but yes: as jet power hammered him back into his seat he'd felt a hot prickling behind his eyes, had wanted to whoop with—joy? Damn it, _yes,_ but also _more_ than joy, it was completion, it was deliverance, it was release. Han told himself, later, that he'd simply been moved by adventure, by youth and perceived freedom, and he was; but the deeper truth was, flying was the closest he'd ever got to God, to a force. They'd spoken a lot, in the Home, of God, as they hit kids with belts. It had left Han with a distaste for faith. But the irony of Han's life was the constant tension between cynical self-preservation and his craving to be lost, to let himself yield to something greater. And when he flew, when he drove, Han Solo felt both truly himself and part of something else, something vast and glorious.

Han wasn't having such high-minded thoughts when he woke halfway off Chewie's. Still in his pants, one arm out of his shirt, collar and sleeve bunched around his neck. He made a dry, croaking sound of disbelief—what the hell had he done to himself? His cheek was pressed against bare linoleum. He peeled his face free. His cheek stung. For a sick moment, Han thought his skin had somehow adhered to the floor. He reached up to discover a swelling along his cheekbone, hissing as he probed it with his fingers. Had he been in a fight?

Then he remembered.

 _Shit._

XXXXXXXXXX

There was a banging at the cabin door at six in the morning. Leia staggered down from the sleeping loft and to the door; Han stood there, pale and unshaven, looking like he'd slept an hour at most. He smelled like whiskey and his hair was crazed but he had his tools, wore his belt buckled on. Radiating an angry tension, he stalked past her into the kitchenette, snapping open a tape measure.

"You're going to do this...now?" Leia whispered, still mostly asleep. Without looking at her, Han nodded, scratching notations onto his spiral pad. "Faster it's done, faster I'm gone," he said, curtly.

"Well, by all means," Leia muttered. "Let's run everything on _your_ time."

He turned to her, his eyes first flashing with anger, then turning a hot copper as they flicked down her body. Leia glanced at her nightgown, thin white cotton, her nipples pink through the antique fabric. Throat working, Han looked quickly past her, over her shoulder. When Han rose to his full height and stalked towards her, Leia dizzied, the look on his face was so focused and intense. "That what you been using, to go to bed?" Han demanded.

Leia felt her breath leave her in a rush. There was a feeling coming off of Han, a tight-wrapped frustration, and for a moment she thought he was going to rip the nightgown off. And for that moment she wanted him to, angry, hung-over wolf or not.

But Han moved past her, to the ladder mounted to the wall behind her, leading to the sleeping loft. He cocked his head, studying the wood.

"The ladder. Yes," Leia said, breathless with disappointment or relief. She cleared her throat, embarrassed at herself. "It's always been there, I think since—"

Without fanfare, Han ripped the ladder from its brackets. Leia squeaked in protest. "Rotten clear through," he said, and began to kick rungs loose with his boot. "See how easy the slats break? Look at the nails, they're pure rust—"

"What am I supposed to do now?" Leia demanded.

Han looked up from the splintered wood. "Not get tetanus?"

"Han! Where am I supposed to _sleep?_ "

Han shrugged, passing by her, his arms full of splintered wood. "Ask your ladies-in-waiting." He crouched, stacking the slats and rungs neatly beside the fireplace. There was that precision again, Leia thought, even when she could see the contained anger in the muscles of his back.

"When will you replace the..." Leia thought of something else Willa had said, last night, that Han wouldn't be talked to like a servant, and she didn't mean to do that. "I mean," she hurriedly added, "Is there another ladder around here, anywhere?"

"You're no'gonna use a _ladder_. Dumbest damn thing I ever saw. What, you gotta fall down that thing every time you wanna glass of water? No," Han ranted, mostly to himself. Leia began to wonder if he wasn't maybe still a little drunk. "No. Stairs."

"...how long will that take?"

Han rasped a palm over his stubbled jaw. "Well I dunno, Princess, I really couldn't say." He stood, and shot her a look of baleful amusement. " _I couldn't possibly._ "

Leia swallowed, ashamed at the superior scorn she heard in her own words now that she was sober. "You're going to make me sleep on the floor because I refused you a dance?"

"No," Han snarled. "I don't give a damn where you sleep. Forgive me for taking my work seriously. That's what us commoners do, Princess, we work. When we're not tryin' to feel up royalty on the dance floor with our dirty rough hands, that is."

Leia gasped. "That's not what I—"

"I mean. Is it above my station to not allow you to stake yourself in the heart?" Han seethed. He _was_ still drunk. "Though that's probably the only goddamn thing that would make you stop—" Abruptly he pressed his lips together, shaking his head, as though even fighting with Leia was a closeness he could no longer afford himself. Han turned his back, opening his tape measure with a snap.

Leia knotted her fists. "You can't just show up here and tear everything apart!" It came out more as a plea than an accusation. "You're the one who." Leia stopped herself. What was she about to accuse him of? Sleeping with Donna? As though that was a betrayal of...what? Wanting to sleep with _her_ , Leia? Was that an offence? Leia thought of what Donna had said about Han—that he was thorough, how her voice had hummed with satisfied languor. Unbidden Leia saw Han in her mind's eye again, out on that branch, working through his exercise. Saw that strip of abdomen. She shook her head, almost desperately. "Han, I think we—"

Without looking at her, Han held up a hand. "Faster it's done," he repeated, his tone gone cold and remote, "faster I'm gone. So why don't you run along, Sweetheart, and leave me alone."

Leia fled the room, slamming the door, cutting herself off from that maddening man with the hot loud rush of bathwater.


	17. Chapter 17

It was a gloomy mid-September afternoon, with a hard rain rattling the windows of Chewie's diner. The weather was so bad that it precluded Han's plans for staining the new cabinets outside, so he'd told Leia he figured he'd catch up on any maintenance work that had probably built up at Chewie's. Leia had got the feeling he'd been hoping to escape her.

Things had been tense since the party at the diner, since the fight over the ladder. Han wasn't rude to her as he worked inside the cabin, as she read or made notes for Ben. His presence was near-constant alongside her but Leia missed him all the same. She missed their easy conversation, his humor; the closest he'd come was a quirked eyebrow at the nest of blankets and pillows she'd made on the living room floor. Mostly, Han remained inaccessible, closed.

Still, today Leia hesitantly asked him if she could come along for the ride. He'd shrugged, his dispassionate acquiescence somehow worse than a refusal would have been. So now Leia was nestled in a booth at Chewie's, nursing a mug of strong tea and reading the Jobs section in the _New Hope Gazette_. There was an advertisement for a classifieds writer. Only writing births and deaths and wedding announcements, to start, but with the chance to learn on the job. She could train to be a real reporter.

Chewie put a glass of milk and a slice of lemon meringue pie down in front of her. Leia's mouth watered. "Chewie, I can't afford-"

Chewie waved a huge palm at her, fluently communicating that there was no charge. Leia sighed. Touched as she was by Chewie's adamant generosity—she _was_ hungry, and Chewie made spectacular pies—Leia loathed the feeling of helplessness. She'd already been helped so much by these men, Chewie and Han. She thought of how Luke had blossomed in the company of these men, who wore their masculinity with such ease. It had made Leia deeply happy to see Luke mature and emerge; he'd always been bright, kind, selfless, talented, and Ben had certainly nurtured him as an artist. But a certain new male confidence had begun to develop in Luke as Han taught him to handle tools and verbal barbs.

As Leia thought of Luke he appeared, as he so often did, as though she'd summoned him. He slid into the booth seat beside her, giving her his sweet smile. Leia was relieved to see that he looked better, not so slender, his color warmer than the last time she'd seen him, the night of Chewie's dinner.

His smile turning mischievous, Luke stole a bite of her pie, then looked around, chewing. "Leia. Listen," he began quietly, then paused before he told her that he'd been accepted at the Chicago Institute of Design.

Leia stared. Luke stared back, his eyes sparkling, and nodded. A tremendous smile broke over Leia's face. "Luke," she whispered. "Luke, that's..."

Luke took her hands in his. Ben Kenobi had taken pictures of all Luke's work and sent them to a friend on the board, Professor Jinn, who'd agreed to let Luke in late based on the portfolio's power. Luke had been awarded a full scholarship. "He told Ben he'd never seen such raw talent," Luke said, with no braggadocio, just wonder. And now he couldn't sleep, the creative ideas coming so fast and rich. "It hasn't been like that in so long," Luke said. "Not since I began working with my father. I thought he'd—I—I was afraid Empire had killed that part of myself."

Leia felt the chill at her back that always accompanied the thought of Anakin Skywalker. Since she was a child she'd feared his heavy walk, his rasping voice, his blazing ochre eyes under the brim of his black hat. His sweeping black coat, which he wore in all weather. He had been handsome once, her mother had grudgingly said, a lot like Luke. But that was before the accident that had killed his wife, brought his son prematurely forth, and marked Anakin's face with its red webbing of rage and grief.

"When do you go?" Leia breathed.

Luke swallowed hard, dropped his eyes, then looked back into hers. "I'm leaving just after Christmas."

She thought of Anakin Skywalker again, shuddered to recall the way Anakin had appeared on the beach that night, silent in his black coat and hat, silent except for that thick, rasping breath. The way he'd clamped his gloved hand on Luke's arm—poor Luke, bleeding and bruised and dazed from Isolder's fists—and silently dragged his son back up the path. He'd appeared like a wraith from the trees and then he left, Luke stumbling in his father's silent wake.

It was an absurd thought, but Leia Organa privately imagined Anakin Skywalker as the Angel of Death.

"What will you tell your father?"

Luke's jaw tightened. "Nothing. Han's got R2 running so well you can't even hear 'im, when he starts up. So I'm just going to go, in the middle of the night. Some night when it seems right to get away with it. I won't know till then. But just in case, Leia, just in case I don't get the chance," Luke's eyes misted, his voice thickened. "I wanted to tell you first."

Leia hugged her cousin hard and close, tears prickling her eyes. She was almost completely overjoyed for him but a tiny part of Leia was secretly pained for herself, who had never lived without him. And as genuinely happy as she was to see her beloved Luke succeed in pursuit of his dream, it did highlight the ways in which Leia felt stuck herself. _No,no: don't forget the ad in the paper._

XXXXXXXXXX

Luke went into the kitchen to talk to the guys, leaving Leia with her own plans. Money was becoming a real challenge; the probate meeting with Carlist Rieekan was still two weeks off, and until then she had no cash with which to assemble a suitable work wardrobe. Leia shivered. She was still wearing her mother's and Padme's stored clothes well into the colder days. There was one fur coat, but the thing gave Leia the creeps and looked absurd. Was she going to turn up for a job interview in that? She rolled her eyes. Taking a bite of pie, she focused again on the job advert, narrowing her eyes in determination. This was her chance, and she was not going to blow it. She would get that job, damn it. Leia vowed to herself that, even if she had to wear a house-dress from 1946 to the office every morning, she would do such a flawless job that the editor, Miss Mothma, would never, ever regret her hire.

And then, Leia daydreamed, with her first paycheck, she would buy Christmas gifts. New paintbrushes for Luke, kitchen tools for Chewie, a nursing charm for Shara's bracelet. She sighed. Something for Han, too, if she could ever get enough insight into that infuriatingly oblique man to guess what he truly liked. And after all that, if there was any money left over, Leia would rebuild her lost wardrobe, one blouse at a time, until she could go to work with her head held high.

Plans made, Leia took a bite of lemon pie. Chewie really was an artist, she thought, closing her eyes, savoring the sweet-tart perfection with a tiny moan. When she opened them, Han Solo was looking oddly down at her from his ladder. He looked abruptly away. "Damn good thing we got that new roof on when we did, Luke," he called gruffly toward the kitchen, gesturing with needle-nosed pliers at the hammering rain.

Han went back to tightening a delicate bulb in the new, huge chandelier, which resembled a cloud of pastel pink bubbles. Chewie had let Annie choose the new one from a catalogue and this was what had been delivered this morning. Chewie had thrown up his hands when he saw the choice of his adopted little sister, going back into the kitchen, into the laughter of the kitchen greasers. Leia liked the fixture. It cast such a sweet, whimsical light. Leia smiled to herself to see Han up there, his handsome face bathed in pink, chewing the inside of his cheek in concentration. She found herself watching his hands at work, the easy precision of his long fingers. Something about his intent expression, the surety of his touch, sent odd heat rushing through Leia's gut.

She gulped her milk.

The door-bells tinkled. Leia glanced up to see Theo Isolder, backed by his cohort of football players. Under the table, she dug her nails into her palms. Theo swung into the booth seat opposite her, his buddies perching like crows in a line at the counter. They swivelled and snickered, keeping their eyes on Theo as though awaiting orders. Theo studied Leia with glib good cheer.

"Whatcha doing, baby-doll?"

 _Baby-doll._ Leia shuddered, but managed to disguise it as a shiver. It wasn't exactly fakery; Leia had lost weight, and today she wore a thin, flowered shirtwaist dress from the 1940s, much too fine and light for the harsh weather.

Theo studied her with barely controlled hunger. "Wanna hit the drive-in, later?"

On the ladder, Han tensed. Somehow, Leia could feel it.

"No, thank you," Leia said, coldly. "I've got research to do for Ben Kenobi, tonight."

Theo gave a petulant scowl. "Aw, that old loony? Forget him. C'mon, baby," he said, snaking his fingers around her wrist. "Don't you wanna check out my new ride? All leather inside. Real nice heater, and the back seat recl—"

Above them, in the ceiling, something shattered. Gritty pink glass sifted to the floor, and a second later, pattering blood fell on the tile in fat coins. Han muttered a curse, eyeing a sliced finger. Theo turned his small blue eyes upwards.

"Hey, guy. Could you take it easy? I don't wanna get cut to ribbons down here."

"Don't worry," Han drawled. "I won't get blood on your pretty jacket." He gave Theo a bright, hard grin. "Well. Not _my_ blood."

Theo frowned in disbelief, then got up and shrugged his football jacket off, draping it solicitously over Leia's shoulders. The heavy leather sleeves seemed to drag her downwards. Staring at Han climb down the ladder, Theo's face assumed a familiar malevolent glee that Leia remembered from elementary school all the way through to that night on the beach at Alder Glen, the fight with Luke. "Say," Theo said. "It's Solo, right?"

Han paused almost imperceptibly on the ladder; Leia realized, with a small shock, that she'd learned to interpret his body language. He resumed his descent without a hitch. "That's right," Han said, as he reached the floor, roughly wiping his bloody hand on the clean rag tied to his tool-belt.

Theo grinned. "Solo. Unusual name, isn't it? What's that, Italian? Irish?"

Han didn't reply, regarding Theo out of half-lidded eyes gone stony gray.

"French?" Theo went on. "Japanese?" Still Han didn't speak, just watched Theo steadily. "You know what my mother said—you'll be interested in this, Leelee, you're a history buff—"

Leia stiffened.

"My mother said, Solo was a name the government used to give wards of the state, in the dirty '30s. The Depression. Y'know, orphanage kids. The ones no one wants."

Han's face went absolutely, impassively still.

The air seemed to leave the diner. Even the kitchen seemed to quiet. Annie whimpered; Suzette put down her tray. Theo's cronies listened, ravenous. Leia's heart kicked almost out of her chest. Luke and Wedge and Wes and Kes came out from the back, to investigate the change in atmosphere. Theo addressed Leia, now.

"Yeah, weird, right? Solo. No-name kids, no families. No fathers. Abandoned." Theo gave Leia a regretful grin, stage-whispering behind his hand, "They used to call 'em bastards."

Leia shrugged out of Theo's hateful coat. She let it fall to the floor; Theo scowled. Deliberately treading on Theo's precious trophy jacket, Leia stood. "You're a pig," Leia said, her voice shaking.

"Relax, Leelee," Theo said. "I'm sure _our_ Solo has people who love him. I told Ma, that story's gotta be hokum."

"Nah," Han said, his voice deep and even. "It's true."

"No shit?" Theo chortled. "You were raised in an orphanage?"

Han said, with taut dignity: "Corell Home for Boys, Baltimore, Maryland. 1935 to 1950."

Leia closed her eyes, aching.

"You hear that, guys? Fixit guy's an _orphan_. Hell. That could break your heart."

With a small, patient smirk flickering at the corners of his mouth, Han waited for the jock laughter to stop. "Aaaah, coulda been worse." Han shrugged. "I coulda had _your_ mother."

The restaurant gasped. Theo surged forward into Han's face, the toes of his high-top sneakers almost touching Han's boots. Han didn't flinch, looking down his nose at Theo. Han was slightly taller, Theo now understood, everyone watching understood, now that the young men were face-to-face. It looked bad to have to look up to the man he'd been taunting, but Theo couldn't step back now to look Han levelly in the eye, and risk looking weak. So Theo was forced to stay where he was, neck tilted back, looking up. Han understood Theo's predicament, flashing him a quick, nasty grin. Theo's neck began to redden.

The football guys lined up behind their leader. Leia moved to join Han; for the first time a flash of fear appeared in Han's eyes. He dragged her behind him, out of the way. Wedge and Wes, Kes and Luke boiled out from behind the counter; the jocks surged forward, and so did the Rogues. Theo advanced on Han. Pressing Leia between his back and the wall, Han brought up his fists.

Chewie bellowed from the kitchen doorway, brandishing his terrifying spatula. Everyone froze. After a long, fraught moment, Theo sneered, scooping up his jacket. "Gotta get your buddy to save ya, huh, Solo?"

Han didn't answer. Theo began to walk backwards, towards the door, pulling on his jacket. "Sometime, Solo," he said. "I'm gonna catch you alone sometime, man." He shot Leia a look of suggestive threat. "I'll take a rain-check on that drive-in date, Leelee."

At that, Leia felt Han tense to steel, situating her even more tightly between him and the wall. "Catch me anytime," Han said, flatly. " _Boy._ "

Theo turned back. "You son of a—nothing, son of nothing, I will—"

The energy began to ramp again.

"Enough," Luke said. His voice was so newly commanding that it stopped the room. "Enough. I have had enough of this, of you moving through town like you own it. Since we were kids, Theo. You and your mother."

"Skywalker?" Theo looked at Luke in shock. He began to laugh. "Oh, shit. You really do not wanna go down this path."

Luke stepped closer, his face calm and firm.

"No. Enough. What will it take, to make you stop?"

Theo cocked his head. "Gimme your car. I hear your bastard pal's souped it up real hot."

Luke lifted his eyebrows, watching Theo's face work in thought. Leia, picking around Han's broad ribs, got the eerie sense that Luke was almost...guiding Isolder to some suggestion. But that was crazy. Still, when Theo blurted it out, it seemed almost programmed: "Drag race. Two weeks, when my car's outta the shop."

Wedge snorted. "You race, so what? I'm still gonna see _you_ again." He pointed at the jock he'd beaten up that night on the beach. "You and me, baby. You ever find all your teeth?"

"We'll all race," Theo snapped. "Us against you."

"Yes," Luke smiled beatifically. "A relay race. A bottle of paint, handed off one car to the next. Red for your team, blue for us. The final car goes for the Cairn Estates billboard. Whoever hits it first wins."

Theo's slower mind struggled to digest the information. Luke waited, patiently. "All right," Theo said. "You're on, Skywalker. You and me are last drivers."

Luke accepted this with a gracious nod of the head. Leia felt a change in Han's frame, and from it, she knew that he was smiling, and trying to hide it. Suddenly Leia snaked her hand out and nestled it into Han's, hoping the contact could convey how she missed him, her apology for how things had gone wrong between them. Hoping Han could feel her care—not pity, one couldn't pity anyone as resolutely himself as Han Solo—but, yes, care at what he must have gone through as a little child, three years old, put into a hard and violent home. Leia knew from her reading that urban Depression orphanages were little more than labor mills. Leia squeezed Han's hand and pressed her cheek to his back, projecting all her entreaty, regard, allegiance into her touch.

She felt his shock. But then, with a sort of rush she could feel in his flesh, Han squeezed hard, back. They hung on, their current flowing between them, renewed and open.

Wes Janson clapped his hands. "Y'all fuckers are _on_."


	18. Chapter 18

Author's Note: Hi guys! Thanks so very much x infinity billion for the comments and support! It means so much to me that you're entertained by my soap opera. Here, have some more. Xo!

XXXXXXXXX

Leia was wearing that lavender silk dress again. The damned dress that clung just so to her hips and breasts; the dress that had driven Han near-mad all summer. He thought of it when he drafted, measured, sawed, hammered. Thought of it at the diner, driving, playing poker—Han thought of it when he tried to sleep and gave up, no point in discussing what came after (but he sure thought of Leia in it _then_ , all right, and in full Technicolor). He'd figured the colder weather would give him some respite from that wispy device of torture. But no, here it was halfway through September, leaves lit red and orange and what Luke kept calling _raw umber,_ and still Leia was wearing that dress that Han loved and hated in equal measure.

He'd thought lending her his warm work-shirt would make it better _._ But now, seeing Leia in his beat-up shirt, sleeves rolled way up, thrown over that filmy dress? Han fell into a fresh hell of want.

It was sexy, yes; uncomfortably that. When Leia stepped onto the porch in his rough twill and her silk, carrying two mugs, she was sexy enough to race Han's heart. Girl in a guy's shirt? Han understood—had personally enjoyed—the look's full implications. But again, as with her book on the day of the gold bikini, it was the details that elevated common fantasy to _Leia_ that really did it for Han. This time it was the offering of coffee, her drowsy smile. _That_ was what had Han believing they'd just risen together from the nest of spare pillows and blankets on the hardwood floor. Leia had a look of...what was it: like she'd been wonderfully dismantled and reassembled. Like they'd just climbed from an intimate shambles, and soon they'd tumble into one again. Han found the thought, the sight of her like that, incendiary and comfortable all at once. It was as if—

( _no, no, don't even think it_ )

It was as if Leia was his wife. This was their home, their languid morning; their coffee, their mingled clothing. Their life.

He was fuckin' pathetic, Han thought, accepting his mug. But as Leia settled next to him in the hammock, Han was distracted with images so lusty and vivid and oddly right that he didn't even hear her request.

"Can I practice on you, Han?" she said, again.

Han almost spat out his coffee, which was delicious, because he'd made it (hers was terrible; weirdly, that kind of insider Leia-knowledge only heightened Han's domestic reverie). He didn't answer, for fear of what he'd say. _Practice on me? Jesus, Princess:_ _ **yes.**_ _Let's start with something popularly known as "the kiss."_

"Would you mind?" Hopefully, Leia scanned Han's face, surely misinterpreting his reticence. "For my interview tomorrow. I've practiced answering all the questions I can imagine Miss Mothma asking, but I need some I can't anticipate."

Han swallowed his mouthful of coffee. "How many stripes on a zebra?" She gave him a look. He shrugged. "You said things you can't anticipate."

"Okay, hotshot," Leia said, coolly. "The stripes are unique. Like human fingerprints."

"Hot damn," Han said, his eyes wide. "We ain't gonna get you a _job,_ Sweetheart. We're gonna get you on _The $64,000 Question_."

Leia smiled—whether at Han's praise or at his use of "we," she wasn't sure. "My father bought me this big _Ripley's Believe It or Not_ book, when I was little. I just loved it. I kept it on my desk at home, next to my thesaurus." Leia looked away over the lake, but she was smiling, as though memories of Bail Organa no longer maimed her. She lifted her mug in dry self-regard. "I can't make coffee, but I know a lot of useless trivia."

"Yeah, but," Han teased, "do you know how to tweak the tension pulley on a '48 Chevy?"

Leia burst out laughing. "Give me a serious question!"

"Hey, the tension pulley is a serious deal, Princess. I'm gonna check 'em all on the Rogues' cars today, gotta win us a race. So...you might as well stay here. I'll bring us something from Chewie's. Whatever you do—" he pointed a warning finger at her— " _don't_ try to cook again."

She batted Han's finger from her face. "I don't need to cook," Leia said, with playful loftiness. "I'm a career woman. Now, question me." She poked him in the ribs. "A _real_ question, you scoundrel."

Han's eyebrows shot up in incredulous delight. "Scoundrel? _Scoundrel?_ " Leia blushed. Han adjusted imaginary eyeglasses, pretending to be Mon Mothma. "Miss Organa, despite your impressive knowledge of zebras, I'm troubled by your interest in pulpy romance novels..."

Leia tried to scoff, but produced a flustered choke that heightened Han's smirk. " _I_ don't read roma—"

"Come on," Han laughed. " _Scoundrel_?"

She gave a tiny sigh. "Fine. When I was about thirteen, I _may_ have gone through a phase..." Leia glanced at Han, a smile playing on her lips. "Would you prefer I called you a rake? Blackguard? Cad?"

"Naaah," Han said, stretching back in the hammock. "I'll be your scoundrel, Princess." He crooked an elbow behind his head, offering Leia a lazy grin. Seeing Leia's face was scarlet, he relented. "Alright, serious question. You think we'll ever get to the moon?"

Leia eyed him warily over the rim of her mug.

"Hey, she could ask you that. Current events, right? Science." Bracing a foot against the porch, Han gave the hammock a gentle push. "So, you figure it's possible? Or just some crazy dream?" He turned to look at her, his irises inscrutable evergreen. " _Can_ a man dream, of something like that?"

"I think," Leia said, deliberately, "that wild dreams are not entirely the province of men."

Han gave Leia a slow, radiant grin, the one she loved best. The one that made merry crescents of his eyes, the one he never gave anyone else. "You're gonna knock 'em dead, Sweetheart."

XXXXXXXXXX

It was clear that Leia's funds were dwindling. Han couldn't stand it, anymore, watching Leia bravely suppress her shivering. And as much as he'd love to watch her shape all his warmest shirts, they sure as hell wouldn't work for her job interview.

Han found himself thinking, lately, about the rescue fee he'd gleefully taken from Luke. He'd never spent those two crisp c-notes, not even on that expensive transmission problem Millie kept having. He'd considered handing that money directly to Leia for new clothes. But he knew she'd never accept it, that even offering it the wrong way could trigger her defensive shields. Then Han toyed with the idea of mailing the cash to Leia under the guise of a small advance from her parents' estate. Knowing Leia, though, she'd connect the two hundred dollars to the amount of his fee—that girl never forgot _anything._ Anyway, Han figured, it'd be a real job to write convincing legal correspondence to the whip-smart daughter of a lawyer.

But if Han didn't do something, Leia would march into the _Gazette_ tomorrow morning knowing she was strangely dressed, but typically resolved to do her best. She may even believe that was all it took. Han knew Leia wasn't naive, or spoiled, but she'd been raised with enough money that Han suspected she didn't yet understand how material division could shape your chances. The thought of Leia made vulnerable by her ideals was painful for Han, especially when she'd prepared so hard, driven herself relentlessly. By day she made exhaustive notes on articles she'd clipped from the _Gazette_. Late at night, from the Falcon's bunk-window, Han watched her shadow pacing in lamplight. Leia was brave, determined, and so damned bright. Beautiful, too, no matter what she wore but still: Han knew how the world worked. Money talked. And there was no money in Leia's pretty, shabby frocks.

Plus. He'd heard that Ruby, Threkin Horm's mean-mouthed chippie, had a friend on the newspaper's staff. She wrote the gossip column, which Ruby fed with tidbits she picked up at Cloud City. Leia was worth millions of those dumb harpies, but still it sickened Han to imagine them snickering at her—and maybe in print.

No, Han couldn't stand it. So, he finally decided, he just...wouldn't. If Her Worship hated him for interfering, well, Han could deal with that. But seeing Leia hold her chin high as her dreams were publicly mocked, dashed to bits, wearing some summer dress from 1936? That would _kill_ him. And Han was a tough man. He hadn't died in the home, in Korea or on the Baltimore docks. Of course, Han thought with wry despair, he hadn't been in love with anyone then.

He waited until Leia went to see Ben, and then Han got in his truck.

No one was gonna use _his_ girl as a laughing stock.


	19. Chapter 19

Priscilla Mason hummed with pleasure as she folded the beautiful new fall sweaters. It was slow today, at her boutique. So far she'd only had that charmer in—what was his name? It was unusual—Leo? He was great fun, Priscilla thought. A real dandy, he stopped in often to check out her stock. And he always bought, even if only a pair of fine, patterned socks. Today he'd bought a silk ascot striped in mauve and dove gray. She'd known he'd love that, thought of him when she put it in the window display. Oh, at fifty-something Priscilla knew she was too old for...Leon? Linus?—he had to be about twenty-five—but she enjoyed his flirtatious patronage nonetheless.

The doorbells chimed. Standing in the boutique doorway was another young man, looking nervous and lost. This one was quite handsome too, Priscilla thought, though in a rougher way than her flashy regular. After a moment the tall man stepped inside the shop, shuffling along the thick carpet, hands confined to the stripes along his trousers. He stared in mute dismay at the racks of woolens and cottons and silks, dresses and coats, the wall of shoes.

"May I help you?" Priscilla asked, gently touching his elbow. The young man jerked, then looked down at the elegant saleswoman with a kind of desperation.

"Menswear is upstairs," Priscilla said.

"No, I. I'm looking for my—something for my—" He swallowed. "A girl. My, uh. A girl."

Priscilla smiled encouragingly. "Of course. A gift?"

"More replacement. See, she lost all her clothes—"

The older brunette raised elegant brows.

Horror dawned in the young man's big olive-colored eyes. "No! Not like _that_." He winced. "I mean, _all_ her clothes. It was an accide—look. She's got this shot at a job, and I want to replace—" Agitated, he huffed out a breath.

"All right," Priscilla soothed. "We can absolutely do that." She watched the man fractionally relax. A wardrobe-obliterating accident? She had an inkling of who he meant. "First, tell me about her interests, what she's like."

He brightened. "Real smart. Reads a lot. She'd beat anyone on them TV quiz shows." He shook his head with a dreaminess one wouldn't expect from his masculine affect. " _Stubborn._ But y'know, playful too. She, uh. Likes to laugh..."

Priscilla studied him, this young man ticking off the qualities of a girl he was obviously devoted to. A girl who sounded very much like one of Priscilla's lifelong customers. Noticing the ridged slash on his chin, the shopkeeper remembered her recent conversation with Erin Isolder, about men with scarred faces. Priscilla had always been quick at putting pieces together, whether into outfits or dynamics or character. So _this_ was who Erin had aimed to slyly disparage to Leia. Oh, she'd known that vile woman was up to something. His old wound was poignant, Priscilla thought, in contrast to the man's expression, earnest and serious as a boy's. He mumbled on and on. _Brave. Funny. Kind. Quick._ _Goddam—darned pain in my neck._

Finally he seemed to hear himself and trailed uncomfortably off, rubbing at the back of his head. "I dunno. If any of that. Helps."

"Oh, certainly! Personality is key to style." Priscilla began to flip through her racks. "So. She's witty. Bright and ambitious, resilient, but not dour. Now, how about her sizing?"

Out of the corner of her eye, Priscilla watched, bemused, as the young man's throat and cheekbones reddened. "Ahhhhh," he toed the carpet. "Real small. But. Uh," He lifted his large hands, then helplessly dropped them. Judging from their callouses, Priscilla doubted those hands had ever failed him, before. "Bitty waist but..." Priscilla inferred the word he was frantically avoiding: _stacked_.

She took pity on him. "She's petite, but shapely."

He exhaled. "Yes. Exactly. Yes."

"Coloring?"

"Brown eyes. Great big brown eyes. Brown hair, bits of red in it. In the sun, like. Pale skin—not sick pale, kinda...creamy..."

And off he went again, offering his hoarded observances. _These crazy eyelashes._ _Littlest feet._ Priscilla hid a fond smile. He was the one who looked sick, poor boy. Love-sick. She began to pull clothing for the young man to choose from in Leia Organa's measurements, which she'd had on file for years.

XXXXXXXXXX

Ben and Leia often walked the woods together, especially in the perfect autumn. But today Ben was tired, so they stayed in his humble one-room cabin, the board floor bright with decades of cast-off paint. They spoke of her job prospect, the exciting new life Luke was embarking on. For the first time Leia found herself thanking the older man for his support and wisdom; he'd been almost an uncle to Luke and Leia all their lives, even somewhat of a guardian. He and Bail had been friendly, but Breha had kept her distance from Ben. Leia knew Ben had spent his life in Alder Glen, so he must have known the twins since they were all children, but Breha never acknowledged him.

Ben was looking older, his auburn hair and beard rapidly whitening. He had a cough Leia didn't like, and when he rose to make tea she bade him sit and boiled the kettle herself. Then she made toast, only burning it a little bit. She'd meant to drill herself more for tomorrow's interview, but instead Leia read to Ben from the historical anecdotes she'd found in the New Hope archives, and in this way, a whole cozy day passed. As the sunlight deepened into early evening, Ben fell asleep in his battered chair. Leia pulled the afghan over him, kissed his forehead and crept out.

When she stepped inside her own cabin, Leia stopped and gasped. The small staircase was gorgeous. Meticulously fitted tongue-and-groove cedar scented the open main room with a good, golden smell. Leia took such joy in climbing to her sleeping loft, trailing her fingers over the satiny banister. She so wished she could show her father. Leia felt, in some way, that Bail's love for the cabin and land had been honored by Han's beautiful work. When Leia reached the top, she was so clouded with feeling that, at first, she didn't believe what she saw next. She simply stood, staring, fingertips pressed to her trembling lips.

On the big iron bedstead, neatly laid out across the patchwork quilt and draped over the footboard, was a full wardrobe of clothing. Two trim wool skirt suits, one ivory, the other forest green; a tie-neck blouse in cream-tinted silk, another in lavender. Two cardigans, deep blue and brick red; two casual blouses, two circle skirts; two pairs of capri trousers. Three dresses, fitted at the bodice and waist with flaring bottoms: a scoop-necked party dress patterned with roses; a sundress in red gingham; a businesslike charcoal crepe. Three sweaters: coral-pink angora, soft russet chenille, and a black merino boatneck that, modest at the front, dipped in a daring V at the back. Leia's throat swelled with emotion. She'd seen one just like it on Audrey Hepburn in _Sabrina_.

A cream wool belted coat, lined in thick quilted silk, hung from the mirrored bureau. Lined underneath were four pairs of shoes: simple leather pumps in black and neutral, red ballet flats, and—oh! Leia squeaked with delight. Dainty silver satin sandals, gathered at the toes with glittering bows.

On Leia's pillow was a ragged-edged note, written in Han's impatient, slanting script: _Get your own damn bikini, Sweetheart._

Leia laughed into her hands, then closed her eyes, letting tears spill down her cheeks. She'd never spoken of how she dreaded walking into the _Gazette_ in Breha's 1930s travelling suit. She'd known she'd have to walk past the secretarial pool—a few of whom had comprised the meanest high school girls, with their queen being Esther, the gossip columnist—looking absurd. But somehow Han had understood, and refused that outcome for her.

In a way, Leia thought, Han had _armed_ her.

Here, just in time, were the very things she'd have chosen for herself—but more special, more treasured for the surprise, for the careful, perceptive thought behind them. From these clothes, Leia could feel the way Han saw her, his admiration of and faith in her, his support of her as a force in the world. Leia shook her head in shock, fingering the exquisite coat. It was all so very much, all so very well-made. This must have cost him at least two hundred dolla—

The reward. Leia widened her streaming eyes. Han had spent his rescue reward on this, for her.

She felt a wave of feeling so strong that she no longer struggled against it; Leia let it tumble her up and sweep her along. It carried her down the stairs and out onto the porch, behind the cabin and towards the workshop. In the shop doorway, Leia paused, unseen. Han moved through bars of rich autumn light to kneel in the sawdust, before the vice. He ran his fingertips down the spine of a clamped plank, gauging its level. The radio was on, playing some languid dream of a song and absently Han muttered along _: I only have eyes for you._

Leia watched him, his eyes gold and fixed, biting his generous lower lip in evaluation. Yes, this was the face, the insistent process, that she'd sensed behind Han's insouciance. Despite his pose, there were absolutes to which Han Solo subscribed. This was the standard to which he'd built up Millie; the stairs, the porch; assembling the beautiful arsenal of Leia's new wardrobe. Had Han been building this, this strange feeling, too? This feeling in her heart, her head, her belly, and—

Han looked up.

"You..." Leia managed, before her voice broke.

At the sight of her tear-streaked face, Han's eyes softened with concern, his mouth falling gently open. Leia felt his worry as clearly as if he'd spoken it: was it a bad idea, after all—had he been just like Erin Isolder, picking her clothes? He'd tried to choose wisely, but—

Before Han could rise from his half-kneeling position, Leia flew to him, stirring wood-dust in her wake. She flung the small, warm bundle of herself into Han's arms and took his just-parted lips with her own. Almost literally bowled over, Han breathed a soft, startled _whuff_ into Leia's mouth. But he soon recovered, eyes falling closed, arms wrapping around her, kissing her so ardently that she curved slightly backward. Leia sank her hands into his thick hair and whimpered. Without breaking the kiss Han stood upright, easily gathering her tight and close, Leia's body rising to his until she swayed on her toes. Han gave a groan that she felt in her bones. In all her private imaginings of this, Leia had never conjured quite that suffering sound of his, but it was just right, just like the kiss: hungry and grateful and fierce all at once.

Further parting her lips with his, Han let his tongue flicker along her own. The current that always existed between them suddenly spiked by a thousandfold. Like she'd been wire-shocked, Leia broke and gasped for breath. Panting, Han pressed his forehead to hers. They stood like that, swaying almost imperceptibly to the haunting song. Fine sawdust drifted around them, golden and cedar-sweet, holding the last of the dying light.

Finally Leia drew her face away so she could look up at Han, her huge shining eyes searching his. He smiled ever so gently back, one rough thumb finding a tiny spot behind her ear, stroking there. She shivered. "Oh, Han...how," was all Leia got out, before he was kissing her again. He couldn't help it; Leia was _delicious_ , she was warm and sweet and making impossible sounds, she—

"It was the damnedest thing, Princess." Han murmured, between tender attacks. His tone and touch were so soft, deep and close that Leia wasn't sure anymore what was voice, or kiss, or caress. "I was putting the stairs in, right? and up in your room, I found these little Disney bluebirds..."

She pinched him. He kissed her chin.

"...hard at work..."

Leia shook with silent laughter that became a gasp as Han dared nuzzle her throat.

"...needles and thread in their beaks and everything. I—"

His voice vibrated against her neck. Leia gave a little moan and nestled closer, her breasts pressing against Han's torso. Han swallowed hard, his lips stilling against her skin. Suddenly, he was in very fraught waters. He should have got Leia a hat, Han thought somewhat desperately. If she was wearing a goofy old-lady hat right now, it would help alleviate his, uh, increasingly obvious problem. He ordered his mind to picture a big stupid hat.

 _Or_ _ **maybe,**_ his traitor mind suggested—and since when had his sensible mind-voice been in cahoots with his lust?— _ **maybe**_ _that peach nightie in Priscilla's shop? You remember! Little silky thing, with the ruffled shorts that just barely cov—_

Han set Leia's body away from his more abruptly than he intended, holding her at arm's length. She looked startled, but before she could classify this as rejection, Han cupped Leia's cheek and looked her deeply in the eyes, breathing hard, putting all his feelings for her into his gaze.

Leia sighed.

"Thank you," Leia said. "Han, I—oh, thank you. Thank you. I don't know how I can ever repay—"

Trying to catch his breath, Han gave her a wolfish grin. "Repay? I'll kiss _you_ for free, your Highnessness."

They laughed softly, but then Han's expression clouded. "Hey. The clothes weren't so you'd—I don't want..." He gestured between them. "Leia. You don't _owe_ me this."

"I know," Leia said, tilting her head in fond impatience. "Oh, Han. I know that." She put her fingers to his lips, tracing that alluring tilt. "I _always_ knew there was more to you than money."


	20. Chapter 20

When Leia entered the editor's office at nine am sharp for her interview, unimpeachably dressed in her cream blouse and green suit, the regal woman eyed her over the tops of her cat's-eye glasses and said, "I know you."

Leia blinked.

"You were about eleven years old," Mon Mothma said, narrowing her eyes in thought. "It was at your father's office; did you know he represented me, years ago, when Empire Industries sued me for libel? I reported on their illegal chemical disposal in the Kovsky River. You know about that? Ruined it. Bail defended me for free, on principle. We won. Wonderful lawyer, wonderful man. My condolences."

Swallowing her love and pain, Leia nodded her appreciation. She'd kept the beautiful and finely observed obituary Mon Mothma had personally written for Bail Organa on the front page of the _Gazette._

"As I recall, you were in an armchair, reading a book from his _World Book Encyclopedia_ set." Tapping her cheek with a pencil, Miss Mothma added, "Volume H."

Lacing her trembling fingers together on her knee, Leia nodded. "I was interested in the _Hindenburg_."

Miss Mothma laughed. "Quite. I remember thinking, I was just like that as a girl. Or I would have been, if my parents could have afforded the set. Not an easy expense, on their farm. I read the World Book in the library." The editor tilted her sleek red head. "Did you ever make it all the way through?"

"I did, Miss Mothma." Leia gave a small, secret smile. "All the way to zebras."

"So did I." For a moment, the two shared a kindred smile, then the older woman gave a brisk nod. "Yes. You're the one. You'll start next month; three days a week. Editing and writing births, deaths, engagements, graduations. I know, I know, it's not the _Hindenburg_ , but a little while of that, we'll talk. Does that work?"

Leia couldn't hide her delight. "Yes, ma'am."

Miss Mothma smoothed her elegant navy blouse. "Ask Cecil to make mimeographs for you of the microfilm archive, so you can get a feel for how we write announcements. But Leia, for the love of God: ask Cecil nothing, and I mean _nothing,_ else. You'll lose five years of your life."

XXXXXXXXXX

Chewie had shut down the diner during the days to practice for the upcoming race. He only opened for dinner. Everyone was shocked; Chewie's work ethic was supreme, and it set his profits back, but Chewie was unshakeable, growling that oppression was intolerable and must be vanquished. This was the kind of talk that usually made Han roll his eyes, but now he found himself a little caught up in revolutionary verve. In fact, as he and Luke and the Rogues ran heats out on the edge of New Hope, Han was feeling pretty damn great: he liked the friendship, a common project, the brisk bright air, a challenging puzzle. A looming clash, clear right and wrong; none of the moral torment he'd felt in Korea. And the driving, always for Han it was the driving, the adrenaline and joy and freedom of speed.

But it was Leia who'd cast Han's happiness into the stratosphere. Out here, idling at the side of the road, waiting for Wedge and Janson to appear in his rearview mirror, Han tried to avoid reviewing the last two days since that perfect evening in the woodshop. The thought of Leia's kisses, her closeness, her little breaths against his lips, held him in such visceral thrall that to recall her was to ruin him for anything else. And Han couldn't be ruined, people were counting on him. They had a fuckin' race to win.

Earlier in the week, from his spot up on Chewie's roof, Han had watched Isolder's black Corvette Roadster—back from the shop, whining high and quick—flying down the main drag, neck and neck with his teammate's new Thunderbird. The passengers were throwing taped-off beer bottles filled with water between the cars. It was a hard thing to do, pull the speeding cars into the correct formation to let passengers snake out the open windows; one to throw, one to catch. Bottle after bottle broke all over the street; people stopped to look. The jocks were laughing, having a blast, flirting with the girls who lingered to watch. _Fools,_ Han thought, shaking his head in disgust. _You'd rather show off than do it right._

Or maybe they were just too stupid to know that fate was sealed in details. Han often relied on his ingenuity, his spontaneous luck. But when Han had a shot at control, at upping his chances, he took it. And he had the chance here, in the seemingly trivial things those jerks were ignoring. Water had a different weight than fresh paint; it would alter the bottle's shift, heft, trajectory. And then there was the vessel itself. The bottles both teams had agreed on for the race were Coca-Cola, not Budweiser. Different glass, different necks, different grip; different arc in the air, different shatter point. There was so much to get just right. And Theo Isolder was preening in the street, showily cocking his arm, throwing the bottle like a quarterback.

Han also couldn't believe that the jocks were neglecting the actual racecourse in favor of running their drills where they'd draw the most adoring audience. The race was to be run on the highway just out of town, in three legs, nothing smooth and sedate as the main drag. You had to get a feel for the quirks of an individual road, the bumps and swells and dips that bottomed you out or shot you loose, the friction of cracks, the brisk patches of newer asphalt. You had to gauge the gulfs between specific cars in specific space, for the flying bottle hand-off to succeed. Plus you had to study each guy's style: who would pilot, who would catch.

So _much_ to get just _right_.

But neither Han nor Luke had to explain this to the Rogues. They knew their cars, themselves, their skills. No one had bought the Rogues their vehicles. They'd all built their rides from the ground up, ran them on guts and sweat and grease. The Rogues knew the stakes, and were willing to work until the breaking point.

Wedge and Janson had the first run. It was the briefest, and the straightest; you had to hit that one hot. Wedge's times for the first leg were blistering. But after watching him try the long middle span of highway that wound along the Kessel River, Han concluded that Antilles also had a tight attention span. He got antsy, and you could fly off at any point of that curvy stretch if you weren't honed ruthless. Land in the ditch—or worse, in the water. The middle driver needed not only speed and guts, but focus and patience, a preternatural spatial sense. After comparing times, skills, and temperaments, it was unanimous: Han and Chewie would take the middle run.

Now Wedge's coupe roared into sight. Han doubled the clutch, threw Millie in sharp and lit out like a thing from hell, making Chewie howl his approval as he twisted up and out the window to catch Janson's throw. Janson and Chewie had a crazy knack for tossing and catching the paint-filled bottle; Janson had a pitcher's eye and arm, and Chewie's reach was so long that he caught even Janson's occasional wild shots.

 _Get this right,_ Han told himself. Get this right, and the Rogues were gonna win, and then Theo Isolder would be forced to quit with all his lord-of-the-manor shit. Or so Luke thought. Han was more cynical, but he would erect every barrier he could between that snaky fucker and the girl Han loved. If publicly taking Isolder's pride would drive him away from Leia? Han would cheerfully grind that rich-boy ego into paste.

The real crunch came on the final run, where Han and Chewie would meet Luke and Kes. The last leg was a straight gauntlet, hemmed by trees. Here, the two lanes narrowed enough that it was difficult to get Millie alongside R2 with the kind of precision, velocity and space required for Chewie to throw the bottle safely to Kes, standing in Luke's passenger seat. All afternoon they'd tried the two vehicles at different times, speeds, positions and they'd got it close, real close, close enough for Chewie to hit Kes with the bottle more often than not. But it could be better. Faster. Han could feel it, and knew, somehow, that Luke did too. It could be _right._

But that final throw was just a bitch.

The garish Cairn Estates billboard loomed suddenly at the end of the run. Han was never quite prepared for the way it rose in his vision, huge and oddly menacing, with its perfect Technicolor family frolicking at Alder Lake. There was a bullseye pinned on the billboard; the paint that got the closest to its center, blue or red, would win the event. Privately, Han found this assignment ludicrously hard: setting up a sheet of plywood on stilts to serve as a target, so as not to mark the final billboard with practice paint, had proven that it was hard to hit even a big flat surface at their speeds. A lot of bottles of blue paint went off into the woods. Kes had a powerful arm, a steady hand and aim, but hitting a target the size of a dartboard while standing in a speeding convertible was near-impossible for anyone.

Another run. Watching Kes, Han blew out a breath. Another miss. And this was without a brand new Corvette on their ass.


	21. Chapter 21

Leia sat with Shara and Annie on a little knoll at the side of the road, an expandable folder on her lap. While Han was been running heats with the Rogues, Leia had spent the day leafing through the classifieds archives of the _Gazette_. Leia was moved by these small histories. Over years of mimeographs, she traced the town she loved, its simple, affecting biography: the solemnity of deaths, frothy happiness of engagements and nuptials, the wonder and pride of each new birth. Often, she found herself reading the most moving or funny or inexplicable announcements aloud to Shara and Annie and Marcie.

After a while she tucked her papers away and watched Luke, idling at the shoulder as he waited for Han to clear the rise. Even from this distance, her cousin radiated a peculiar peaceful intensity that had only grown over the last week. Beside him, in the passenger seat, Kes fidgeted, kept craning his neck to check for Han's white truck. But Luke sat still, both focused and relaxed, his eyes fixed to that billboard Leia hated.

Cairn Estates represented everything her father and Ben had fought against: an encroachment of greed into a place of peace. It wasn't that Leia opposed sharing the beautiful land; cheap lots had been available for years. It had nothing to do with keeping the lake elite. Ben Kenobi had never had a penny to his name, in fact. But she'd taken Han to see the spec bungalow Cairn Estates had built outside town, and he had exploded, ranting all the way home that it was cheap bullshit, wouldn't last ten years, was designed to bilk money out of young, struggling families. In his own way, Han was as outraged by the project as Bail had been, though Han's anger was rooted in the idea of rich prospectors profiting off the hopes of the poor—and also, Leia could now tell, his private horror of shoddy standards.

Leia blushed at the thought of her—what? Boyfriend? Leia had never liked the word, couldn't relate to the milkshake-and-bobby-sox dates of her classmates, the trips to park at Lookout Point. Yes, she'd intellectually understood the pull towards lust, and sometimes she felt deep loneliness. But Leia couldn't lie, either, and accepting dates with prospective suitors would have been that, as Leia simply didn't feel about them the way they felt about her. It seemed both cruel and exhausting to pretend. So Leia thought it better not to date at all, to focus on her studies. And of course her parents approved, relieved that their daughter didn't seem to be this new social invention known as the "teenager."

 _Boyfriend. Going steady. Pinned._ None of those popular words seemed to apply to Han Solo, nor to Leia; and, in truth, Leia didn't know what he'd call himself in relation to her. All Leia knew was, for the past two days, Han Solo had kissed her every chance he got. There weren't many kisses so far today, since they were out with their friends; by mutual unspoken agreement, they'd conspired to keep the change in their relationship private. Instead, waiting for Millie to materialize, Leia settled for running every kiss she'd shared with Han through her mind. He'd kissed her in the woodshop, and on the beach, and as they stained cabinets under the red-gold leaves. Han had kissed her on the porch, and in the orchard behind the cabin, his mouth sweet and tart with Honeycrisp apple.

Leia thought now of his lips, his hands, his tongue, his teeth. This was what she'd missed in school, what it was to be swept up. He'd kept everything above her shoulders, so far, though Leia ached for him to do more. But Han didn't—wouldn't. In fact, he'd only ever kissed her standing up. She'd tried to pull him to the grass, and into the hammock, but he resisted. Han wouldn't even enter the cabin at night, not anymore; he'd kiss Leia goodnight at her door after dinner, then sequester himself in the Falcon like he was some werewolf, and Leia the calling moon. She wasn't quite sure, exactly, what Han was forbearing, though the anguished crease that often marked his forehead when he kissed her certainly suggested _something._

There was a whoop from nearby, where Lando Calrissian perched on the bumper of his sleek baby-blue Skylark. As Millie flew into sight, Luke took off, leaving hot black rubber in his wake. Leia stood. Lando shaded his eyes, shaking his head in disbelief, like a man at a racetrack who'd bet on the wrong horse. But his smile gave him away; there was something in Lando that couldn't hold a grudge. He was a man who appreciated beauty and style, and there was so much of both, now, in Han and Luke's graceful merger. For the first time their two vehicles ran perfectly close and parallel, each man's sense of timing and speed, power and space pooling into the other's. They seemed to have discovered some kinetic telepathy. Han and Luke were both fast as hell, but now they shared a similar steely grace that let them make the most of their formidable combination.

As the vehicles flew by together Leia thought she could glimpse Han's face opened in appreciative, joyful laughter. Chewie made the throw; Kes made the catch. Annie squealed, and Shara and Leia exchanged a giddy, hopeful look. Then Kes stood, and threw the bottle; this time it hit, splattering the plywood with thick blue paint. Everybody cheered.

Beyond the billboard Han and Luke slowed, then pulled over; Wedge and Janson pulled up, and all the men poured out, laughing and thumping backs, praising, crowing and vowing until finally Han reminded them, with typical acerbity, that the race hadn't actually been _won_ yet, so. Back to work. They spent the last hour of real daylight pulled off the highway adjusting their engines, overseen by Han. Janson had brought enough beers for them to have one each; Wedge had brought everyone coveralls. Luke declined the beer, but took the coveralls; he had an evening business dinner with his father. With a wink, Han snagged Luke's beer along with his own, but refused the coveralls with a snort.

"What, Antilles, you afraid to get up close to a little grease?"

"Nope." Wedge shrugged, snapping off the cap of his beer with the churchkey he kept on his wallet chain. He inclined his chin at the tall brunette sitting on the ridge with Annie and Suzette, Shara and Leia. "But I'd rather get up close to my girl."

Han went silent, taking a long pull of beer.

Wedge hid a smirk. Just fifteen minutes ago, watching Han pull off that crazy flying formation with Luke, Wedge had figured—again—that Solo had to be the slickest fucker he'd ever seen. He'd been stunned. But now, as Solo tried to sneakily climb into a too-short coverall, Wedge hid a smirk. As Solo cut his eyes to the hill, to a particular girl, Wedge threw Janson a knowing look. Slick? Ha. Sometimes you could read Solo like a Dick-and-Jane.

XXXXXXXXXX

Chewie and Annie rode back to town with Janson; they had to open the diner for the supper rush. Kes and Shara left for her mother's house, where they were living to save money for the baby and their own place. Wedge, with a wink at Han, squired Marcie off to the movies and then probably, Han thought with a smirk, Lookout Point, a popular make-out spot just down the road from Cloud City. Luke slapped Han's back, kissed Leia's cheek and cleared out to meet his father and, probably, Erin Isolder. It was the yearly state-of-the-company dinner in Mantell, and Erin, since the death of her father, old Sheev Palpatine, was Empire's biggest shareholder. If Luke didn't know he was soon to escape this life, he wasn't sure he could face it tonight.

Lando strutted over to where Leia and Han sat together on the hill, resplendent in a purple crewnecked cashmere sweater, the cuffs pushed jauntily up. He whistled when he saw Leia in her own new clothing. "My goodness, Little Queen," he called. "Look at you! Finally someone in this town gives me a little sartorial competition."

Han and Leia shared a moony look that they happily believed Lando didn't notice. Meanwhile, Lando mentally counted his winnings: on a whim, he'd supported Kes' Hail Mary bet of marriage by Christmas. It was nuts, but what the hell. Lando sat for a bit on the hill with Leia and Han, drinking Han's second beer, trotting out old stories that made Han splutter and Leia laugh. Nothing too crazy; Lando knew not to sandbag a buddy with a girl. Or to cut into his private time, so as the sun began to set, Lando finished his beer and stood, adjusting the crease in his slacks to ferocious sharpness.

"Listen," Lando said. "It's my birthday on Friday. Twenty-damn-seven. We're having a party, at Cloud City. Everyone's gonna be there and you are too, Miss Vogue." Lando grinned at Han. "I'll let you bring your grease monkey here if he cleans up first."

Leia said, "Luke and I are only nineteen."

Lando smiled his easy smile. "Well now, that's no problem if nobody at Cloud City serves you. Coke and water for you two, Queenie." He shrugged. "Of course, I can't control, nor am I responsible for, whatever libations you might consume first." He winked, and checked his watch. "Friday night, it's going down. Nine o'clock, Donna hits the stage. Do _not,_ " he said, "Be late." And Lando paraded down the hill, absolutely untouched by grass or twigs or dirt.

Han stood too, in the gathering dusk. He went to help Leia up, then drew back his hand, seeing it was smudged and dark. She was wearing her pretty new clothes, a blouse and red cardigan and a navy circle-skirt. Seeing how much pleasure she took in her finery gave Han a boost of pride that he'd read her right, helped her out when it counted. And did Leia look nice? Man...

He thought of last afternoon, when he'd come into the cabin after racing practice. She'd been wearing a pair of little fitted trousers that some crazy man had bought her and something about those with her tiny bare feet—well, it was a good thing he'd been covered in engine grease. It forced Han to keep a certain distance, though Leia was no help with that, always trying to wriggle closer. Han went alone into the Falcon last night, into the cold shower, where the bathroom mirror reported just what a state Leia left him in: tortured eyes, hair wild, Leia's lipstick blooming across his face, his neck. His groin all heavy fiery ache.

For the first time in his life, Han didn't want to go so far, so fast, with a girl. He wanted to find a pace, a sustainable pace that wouldn't burn them out, or set Leia racing away. She'd said how she felt about marriage, after all—that, essentially, it was a trap—and though the lifelong marriage-phobic Han secretly no longer believed quite _that_ , it wasn't like he was considering that step either. But, he figured that Leia was afraid of her career goals being smothered in romantic obligation. So, as Han repeatedly scolded himself when all he could think of was getting under her dress, _Not so far, not so fast._ This, for now, would be just this: kisses, simple touches. And, in truth, _just_ _this_ with Leia left Han thrilled, addled, consumed. More turned on than he'd ever been with anyone else.

Walking back to Millie with Leia, Han felt buzzed. Not by the single beer; it was that he and Luke had solved something, worked some real magic out there. He'd felt in the grip of some weird steering force that left him still edgy with eager adrenaline. Leia hopped up into the passenger seat and put her folder down. Then she turned back to face Han, standing before her, unzipping Wedge's coverall. He tossed the oily, crumpled canvas in the bed of the truck, then stepped close, planting his knuckles on either side of Leia's thighs, against the seat. For a long moment, they simply regarded each other in the dim light, grateful to be alone.

"How's your study goin'?" Han finally asked, knowing Leia was expecting to be kissed.

Leia lifted her eyebrows, mildly incredulous, then lifted her chin, telling Han that it was going well. She'd studied everything Cecil had given her, and later, at home, she'd try to write her own versions, to capture their tone.

"Oh yeah?" Han asked, leaning in, his eyes moving between her face and her lips. He offered her a sly grin. "What news you got, Miss Reporter?"

He craned his head towards hers, but Leia pulled back, stubbornly playing out the teasing he'd begun. She wondered aloud how he'd like to be described in her article, in the language of public announcement. "Noted craftsman? War veteran? Ace driver?" ( _Boyfriend?_ )

Han rolled his eyes.

"Local smartass?" Leia asked, sweetly.

"Scoundrel," Han said back, in that voice of his she'd only just discovered: silky, secret, deliciously subterranean. He leaned closer. "I like the sound of that."

Leia swallowed. "The newspaper doesn't write about scoundrels," she said, going on with the game, though her voice was shaky. "That's romance novels. The _Gazette_ only writes about nice men."

Han closed in, his eyes both amused and hot with intent. "I'm nice men," Han said, and then he kissed her, a long slow deep kiss that fit her lower lip between his. "But one's a scoundrel." Another kiss, his tongue slipping just in, then gone, his lips moving down Leia's jaw. "And it's _that_ guy," Han murmured, against her neck, "that princesses like best."

Leia sighed. Yes. Now that she knew how Han Solo kissed, Leia supposed there was no point in denying it. Han was nice men and Han was a scoundrel, and now he kissed her with a similar impossible balance: sweetness and impatience; demand and reverence; need and gratitude and frustration and relief. But still Han kept his hands off her; in fact, the more depth and hunger with which he kissed her, the farther he moved his hands away; one was now gripping the back of the seat, the other braced on the dash. Leia broke the kiss, taking her own hands from their roosts in his hair and on his shoulder.

"Would you like me to also keep my hands to myself?"

"Wha—no, Sweetheart." Hazy-eyed, Han gave her a quick half-smile. "God, no." He lunged, but Leia held up her hands between them.

"My hands are dirty, too," she said, wiggling her own ink-smudged fingers. "What are you afraid of?"

Han narrowed his eyes. "I'm _afraid_ of markin' up your pretty new clothes," he growled.

"Is _that_ what you're afraid of?"

Panting, Han cocked his head. Leia lifted in eyebrow in challenge, in invitation. Han looked down at her neat kneecaps, paired close together against his lower abdomen. He looked back, into her eyes; his look strained, pleading. Then he heaved a sigh—a kind of apprehensive recklessness—and gently parted those knees with his thigh. Han pressed himself between, close, carefully watching Leia's face, her widening eyes as they met at the crux of themselves. Leia felt him there, felt the state of him there, felt his mute, primal explanation—saw, in Han's green eyes, a kind of starved contrition.

When Leia breathed sharply in, it was not in fear, but in expansion. Instinctively, she hooked her calf on the back of Han's leg and pulled him still closer, tight against her. And some ignition fired in Han then, a hum she could feel just under his skin. With a shuddering breath he took Leia's face in his palms, engine grease be damned, and kissed her for all he was worth, in wild, awed disbelief.


	22. Chapter 22

Author's Note: You guys. My gosh. I wish I could adequately express just how much your reviews and support mean to me. I am absolutely floored that you're so thoughtful, kind, generous, perceptive. In return, I offer you this crazy angst-fest! Which is, now that I think about it, not appropriate thanks for how great you guys have been. But it's this week's episode of the soap. Xo!

XXXXXXXXXX

"Leia," Han groaned, into the delicate shelf of her collarbone. "We have to—"

It was almost completely dark, and Han was still wrapped up in Leia; well, one of her tiny hands was clutching his shoulder, under his jacket, with her other arm braced on the truck seat behind her. Something about Leia's left arm like that, thrown wantonly back, fingers flexing erratically against cracked leather, was almost unbearably erotic to Han. Leia's head was flung back, too, so far her ponytail brushed the upholstery; he'd worked his mouth and nose under her unbuttoned scalloped collar, breathing in her vanilla and roses, marking her clavicles with lips and teeth and whiskers. Han's left hand spanned the valley of Leia's lower back, under her blouse, holding her belly to his. The pair were near-welded below the waist, a sweet, tormenting pressure that tore at their breaths. Even with his feet planted on the grass, both he and Leia fully dressed, Han felt his restraint dissolving, leaving him barely clinging to his resolve of _not so far, not so fast_.

Han's right hand was under Leia's skirt. He'd meant to park it at her bent knee, but their slow tight pulse against one another had nudged his hand upward, splaying his fingers wider until he gripped the outside of her thigh. His long ring finger reached the bare strip of skin dividing the top of Leia's sheer seamed stocking from her garter belt. That fingertip seemed to Han like the head of a match, grazing, grazing the strike-paper of her lacy strap, and any moment the friction would catch—

 _Oh no you don't, Solo. No no no no._ Han tried to pull back. With a greedy little whine Leia kissed him, sinking her fingers into his hair. Under his palm, Han felt the bend of her spine as Leia moved her hips against his again. Han returned this mindless, divine grind, even as he gasped against her lips: "Ah don't...Leia _don't_ — _Leia._ We have to stop. Right now, Sweetheart: _I_ have to stop."

Panting, he tore himself away. Leia looked up. In the near-dark Han could just make out her half-lidded eyes and swollen mouth, her disarrayed hair, her beautiful grease-smudged face. Hear her quickened breath. Leia was so like she was in his innumerable fantasies that Han squeezed his eyes shut in self-defense, concentrating on slowing his own respiration.

Leia blinked back at Han's shadowed, afflicted face. Was this what the girls at school called _necking_? Leia understood, now, what her peers had whispered about, the charge Han had been resisting. Leia hadn't been prepared for the generation of such wild, leaping amperage. She had always operated with such intellectualism, such duty and self-discipline, that the idea of yielding to some primitive self was both terrifying and titillating. Leia knew, with a sudden rush of blood to her cheeks, that she would have—right here, if Han hadn't stomped the brakes, she would have gone—

Dazed, Leia straightened. With the hand still at her back, Han helped her gently upright. Solemn and close, both overwhelmed, the couple grasped as one for lost decorum. "I'm sorry," they said, together—and both breathlessly laughed, cracking the tension of coming back to themselves. Carefully, Han tucked Leia's knees closed as he stepped from between them. Leia tucked in her blouse and smoothed down the hem of her rucked-up skirt. As she adjusted herself Han turned, walking slightly away up the hill, fingers laced behind his head in a near-military pose of surrender. Walking? God, he was almost _limping_ , throbbing with every step. With a flare of chagrin, Han recalled his flippant dismissal when Janson claimed the train of sex was hard to stop: _Who said_ s _top?_ Han, _that_ Han, had understood sex as merely a matter of mutual pleasure and preventative measures.

"...Han?"

He took a deep breath. "Yeah, Princess. I'm alright. Just need a sec."

As he walked himself back and forth in the dark, pacing off his ache, Han found himself thinking of his old delivery route. Corell Home took in the laundry of wealthy families, though no profit made it to the children who did the dirty work. Young Han had been quick-witted and dextrous, earning the notice of the custodian, Simmons, who taught him how to drive at fourteen (and had also given him an old, cheap utility knife, which Han treasured). At sixteen, Han was sent out in a van with the clean laundry. Han had loved his new assignment: the rare solitude, freedom and speed and air, the radio, the city sights.

He'd been indifferent to the rich types when he dropped their clean threads off, except in the rare event of a tip. Han spent any money on fruit and wolfed it down as he drove back. You didn't bring cash or anything else into the bunkrooms. He'd learned the cruel riddle quick, before he was six: you got caned by Headmaster Shrike for fighting, but if you didn't fight, other boys would take what little you had. Food, blanket. Soap. Shoes. So Han fought, and well, though he'd rather not.

As he grew into gangly adolescence, Han was targeted for another reason: girls liked him. When the boys went on trips downtown, girls talked to Han, giggled, batted their eyes. There was only one mirror in the main bunkroom, cloudy and cracked, so Han couldn't tell exactly why girls liked him, but he sure liked 'em back. It was all Han thought about, in his teens: getting close to a girl. They seemed warm and soft, so nice compared to his harsh, relentlessly male environment.

One day Lorraine, a sophisticated college girl on his laundry route, invited Han upstairs when her parents were out. Han was a savvy youth and guessed what that meant, though he couldn't quite believe his luck. He'd been afraid that he wouldn't last worth a damn and he hadn't, not that first time, had barely survived her putting the rubber on. But Lorraine seemed to enjoy showing Han what was what. Soon, on those secret afternoons, Han learned enough _whats_ to curl her painted toes, even developed a few tricks of his own. God, sex: he became drunk with it, not just the intense physical rush but the sense of usefulness it gave him, the sense of worth.

One Tuesday Lorraine, still flushed and gasping, went to roll from her canopy bed when they were finished, and Han impulsively tugged her close. He'd only wanted to hold her, just a moment—it seemed they'd done almost everything _but_ that. He'd only wanted to catch his breath in her arms. Lorraine gave an ugly hard laugh, and pulled away. She never took Han upstairs again.

Weeks later, Han crossed Lorraine's lawn to the servants' entrance, sacks of her clean laundry slung over his back. Under her open bedroom window, Han overheard Lorraine tell some girlfriend: "Oh, Solo? Ace in the sack, but...needy." Hearing that was like a blade in his gut. _Needy._ Han still squirmed at the thought. He'd worried, back then, that all women would perceive this, that he wore _need_ like some indelible stain. But as Han broadened into his long frame, as his features resolved themselves to undeniable appeal, as his voice enriched, as his quick mind and tongue proved to charm—he discovered that the other rich chicks on Honeysuckle Lane liked him just fine, thanks. And every time one invited him to the poolhouse in her back yard, or between her fancy, frilly sheets, Han was sure to keep things _ace_ , while maintaining a cool, clear emotional line.

Really, he was almost professional.

Han grew to forget he'd ever sought closeness, but the yearning was still there, shading his subconscious. Union was a craving never eased no matter how many girls he pleased, and who pleased him, however briefly. And there were a lot of them: on some level Han Solo believed he would never be loved, but what he could be, by God, was wanted. Sure, it was a superficial heat, but that was all screwing _was_ , Han had said to the impressed other boys, with dismissive crudeness. A thrill. Hot and fun and over.

Now, pacing off the last of his ache, Han understood that he'd been callow. He hadn't known, until he loved Leia, that he could aim for sex to be something other. But now that he _did_ know, Han thought, he would recalibrate his idiosyncratic but adamant sights. When he and Leia met in the way he meant them to, the way they both badly wanted, it was not gonna be by the side of the road, or in back of a bar, or in the back seat of some rich woman's car. It was not gonna be hush-hush, or hollow, or distant, or rushed. Not for them, not for his girl. With Leia, for Leia, it was gonna be better. With his girl, Han vowed, sex was gonna get... _higher_.

Walking back to Millie, back to Leia, Han thought, with a wry half-grin, that it wasn't hard to stop; it was fuckin' excruciating. When Han got in the truck Leia, her face flaming as she tracked his awkward gait, began to apologize again. Wordlessly shaking his head, Han tipped up Leia's fine jaw and kissed her, lightly, once, twice. On the third press of her lips to his, he couldn't suppress a smile that opened the kiss into sneaky heat. Han felt Leia yield, felt his own eager twitch— _Solo, you stupid son of a bitch_ —but pulled back before things truly sparked.

Han started Millie up, got her to cruising speed. Then, with gentle claim, he slung an arm across Leia's shoulders and pulled her close against the chill night air. She gave a small sigh against his chest. Han kissed the top of Leia's head, relishing both the old pleasure of driving and the novel feel of doing so with a girl—this girl, _his_ girl—under his arm, sharing her warmth and contentment with him. This closeness should scare him. But somehow, Han mused, his love for Leia seemed to amplify his freedom. Everything, everything seemed new and boundless.

The pair rode home in intimate silence. It was almost perfect peace—it would have been, if only Leia could ignore the hot whisker-static crackling across her chest. And if Han wasn't imagining, high on Leia's thigh, the brute rosettes of his engine-oil fingerprints.

XXXXXXXXXX

Thursday afternoon, Han was out running heats. Leia was curled in the big, frayed easy chair under the picture window, trying to read, but really she'd been thinking about Han chopping firewood before he left. This train of thought had inspired blended hunger and disquiet in Leia. On one hand: _oh,_ the strong, fluid rhythm of his body at work, even more fixating now that Leia was increasingly familiar with Han up close. But on the other hand: firewood. Autumn was rapidly advancing. And Han was still leaving soon, as far as Leia knew.

Leia didn't regret newly exploring Han, exploring herself _with_ him. She knew she'd never regret that. She wanted to go farther. Virginity wasn't the issue; she'd happily cast that outdated notion aside. Strangely, if their emotions ran thinner, if Han had been the shallow mercenary she'd originally believed, it would be easier for Leia to decide what to do, and when. Why not spend that first time on some handsome, feckless wanderer? If that was all Han was, if it was mere attraction, she'd have him at once and then let him go into flight, and Leia into her career, no strings attached.

But.

She loved Han, Leia acknowledged with a soft, painless jolt. Maybe she'd known it all along. Knowing how she felt, could she could get still closer to Han, then watch him leave? With a trembling hand Leia smoothed her braids, thinking of the long coming winter, first without her adored cousin and now the man she loved.

Oh, God, how had Leia ignored just how alone she was about to become?

When Carlist Rieekan's Oldsmobile pulled up the gravel drive, Leia felt reprieved from these awful thoughts. Except—wasn't their appointment for next week? Had she missed it? Leia asked, as she went outside to embrace the kind, quiet man she'd always thought of as family. No, Carlist explained. He would have called, but Leia did not yet have her telephone re-hooked. With a troubled expression, Carlist gestured at his leather briefcase. He had discovered that the will Breha Organa had prepared, with him, had since had a codicil added.

Leia didn't speak.

Carlist went on. This revised will, which he hadn't known about and certainly hadn't drafted, had been filed by Threkin Horm. Carlist had demanded a meeting, which was going to happen in forty-five minutes. He didn't know the details of the codicil, but Carlist did insist, as her lawyer, that Leia be there in person to hear them.


	23. Chapter 23

Leia would never, all her life, forget the moment when the conference-room door swung open. At the end of her father's long, scarred table—the table at which Leia had learned to write—sat Erin Isolder. At her side was Threkin Horm, looking like a smug, white grub. And standing by the tall windows, almost blocking the light, was the foreboding figure of Anakin Skywalker. Leia felt a danger so great she nearly staggered. Carlist caught her elbow with a supportive hand, even as he frowned into the room. "Horm," he said, "Just what the hell is going—"

"Have a seat, Leelee, dear," Erin called.

"...Horm?" Carlist growled.

"Carlist. Please. Must I insist?" Erin asked, cocking her head like a predatory bird.

Leia and Carlist sat at the other end of the table. As Horm slid Rieekan a set of stapled papers, Erin chattered about Leia's wonderful green suit, her darling figure, how well she was looking, her healthy color.

"...I've been working outdoors all summer," Leia said, cautiously, already in mild shock. She'd watched her father in court; Leia knew to goad her opponent into showing her hand first. But she was badly shaken by the presence of Anakin Skywalker, rasping at the window, watching them all with his dispassionate remove. "Fixing the cabin. It's been..." Leia thought of Han, smiling at her in his torn undershirt, and felt sheltered, as if he'd stepped between her and Anakin. "...it's been restorative."

"Well, that's nice, Leelee." Leia gritted her teeth at the hated, mispronounced nickname. "Your parents would be so pleased. It will make a lovely summer spot."

Leia said, "I intend to make Alder Glen my permanent home."

At this, Anakin gave Leia a direct look that chilled her marrow; it held such punitive contempt, as though her modest plans were indicative of some revolutionary spirit that must be quelled. She shivered. Next to her, reading the will, Rieekan gave a small, startled hum. "Carlist?" Leia whispered. He didn't answer, just read on, his intelligent blue eyes scanning with almost frantic speed.

Erin took no notice of any of this: not the business setting, not the gathering air of menace. Her laugh was crystalline. " _Live_ at Alder Glen? But, darling—you can't possibly. It will be winter soon, and isn't it rather...snug?" She watched Leia over the rim of one of Horm's bone china teacups.

"I hardly need a lot of space," Leia replied, fighting to keep growing panic from her voice. "It's only me."

"Now, now," Erin scolded, coyly wagging a manicured finger. "That's not what I heard." She exchanged a complicit look with Threkin Horm. " _I_ heard that you're keeping a man up there."

Leia flashed back to Starwood: _Miss Organa, do you have a man in there?_ Involuntarily she pictured Han, again, when she'd hooked her leg at his hip: how quickly he'd leapt from agape to voracious, the growl he'd pressed against her flesh. Inwardly Leia cursed her fair skin for its immediate reaction, but fiercely refused to acknowledge the accusation. She refused to look at Horm's expression, damply alight with malicious excitement.

Erin waved her fingers as though some handyman was of no consequence. "It's an adorable place, just right for getaways, but it won't possibly do for your family home. Where would you fit Theo?"

Confused, Leia opened her mouth. But before she could speak, Carlist Rieekan came to the end of the document. He said, with murderous calm: "Horm, goddamn you. What have you done?"

Leia's mouth went dry. She had never imagined gallant, warm Carlist angry; she had certainly never heard him swear. With a scowl so deep it was almost contortion, Rieekan went on, "I will claim the invalidity of this codicil on the grounds of both undue influence," —here, Rieekan pointed at Erin Isolder— "and reduced capacity."

Horm did not answer Rieekan, simply worked his heavy gold fountain pen through his fingers with fussy pleasure, eyeing Leia, a grotesque smile worming over his lips. Anakin's eyes were on Leia, too, those eerie reddish eyes, somehow dead and cruel at once.

"...Carlist?" Leia's face was ashen. "Carlist, what is going—"

Under the table, Carlist Rieekan took Leia's hand. "Lelila," he began, "my dear." He adjusted his glasses. "Your family assets—Alder Glen, as well as most of the funds—were almost entirely your mother's, from the Naberries."

Slowly, Leia nodded. She knew this. Bail had been an idealistic man, prone to mounting free defenses and championing noble causes. He'd never accrued, never cared for, any wealth; he'd left the will completely to Breha and Rieekan to draft.

"And because the assets were in Breha's name, she had sole control over what happened to them, after she was gone. This was fine with Bail. He trusted..." Carlist swallowed. "Breha decided—no doubt with unethical outside influence, Lelila, you must understand that, please don't think she would..."

"Nonsense." Horm still wore that repulsive smirk. "Mrs. Organa was of sound mind."

Rieekan's cheeks flared with dire arterial warning. "You knew damn well—"

Impatiently Horm took over, his nasal voice cutting through the protective frost that Leia felt beginning to form around her. "Miss Organa, it's very simple. Not long before the unfortunate accident, Breha Organa amended her will. We inserted a codicil—this was at the specific request of your mother." Horm shot a challenging look at Rieekan. "The codicil states that in order to inherit, you must be a married woman as of your 20th birthday, which is the 12th of December, I believe, of this year."

Leia sat back, stunned. "I don't want to marry," she said. "I never have."

"That was dear Breha's greatest fear, Leelee," Erin interjected, with misty portent. "She told me so herself. That you would end up an old maid, wasting your life on some career."

"But my mother knew me," Leia fumbled. "Mama knew me, she wouldn't force me—"

Carlist winced.

Horm smiled with nasty patience. "Well, of course no one is _forcing_ you to do anything, Miss Organa. This is, after all, the modern age. You are certainly free to opt for spinsterhood and forfeit the estate—the lake property, all monies—to Empire Industries, which is where Mrs. Organa requested her assets go in the event of your refusal."

"To Empire. That's pretty damned tidy for you, isn't it?" Carlist snapped at Erin Isolder. Erin ignored him, but Anakin's pitiless menace trained onto Carlist. Labored breathing seemed to fill the room: rasp, hiss. Rasp, hiss. Bringing her hands to her ears, Leia shook her head, as though to dislodge something.

"But if you do wish to inherit—and inheritance, of course, is no one's _right_ ," Horm said this last with a mocking twist, as though Leia was some entitled brat, "You will accept this offer: Mr. Theodore J. Isolder was selected, by _your mother_ , as your intended. He was rather shocked to hear this, but said that he has always cared deeply for you, and would be honored to become your husband."

Leia's stomach lurched with the sudden collapse of all she'd known. The last few years of Breha's life, there had been erosion in their relationship, steady but slow, as her mother steered her toward Theo, and a traditional life. _A good provider,_ Breha had said. _A good family._ She said it over and over, vacantly, as though controlled by some outside entity. _You'll be safe with them, safe with him. All your life, my darling, you'll be safe._

Clamping a hand over her mouth, Leia shook her head. This could not be happening. She knew Breha had always been hyper-focused on Leia's safety, but her mother loved Leia— _knew_ Leia—wanted Leia to be happy, didn't she? Leia had always known that Breha and Erin had joked about one day pairing off their children, thus uniting the Naberrie and Palpatine lines, aligning the fortunes of New Hope's two richest and most distinguished families. When they were kids, this talk of arranged marriage had made Leia and Theo roll their eyes. Yes, their mothers' plans had persisted, certainly, into their teens—well past the point that Leia had learned to truly loathe Theo Isolder—but that had been a joke, hadn't it? A _joke_.

"Mama wouldn't have," Leia began, her words uncharacteristically groping, "she couldn't just—"

Helplessly, Leia turned to Carlist. His fist was clenched in rage, but his gentle eyes were filled with regret. "She...could, my dear. It's a legal tool called," he said, with a terrible kindness, "dead hand control." Leia gave an involuntary shudder at the hideous phrase. "People—usually parents—invoke it sometimes, when they truly believe something is best for their child. Breha loved you very much; I know she did. But listen to me, Lelila. As your lawyer, _I do not advise_ _you to accept_. Do not sign. We will file a challenge, do you hear, we will find—" Rieekan's jaw worked, as though he was desperately biting something back. Suddenly, he stood. "Horm, join me in the main office for a moment."

Grandly, Horm stood, following Rieekan out the heavy wooden doors, closing them behind him with magisterial correctness. Almost immediately, Leia heard her father's best friend thundering: "Horm— _Horm_ , you son of a bitch! What have you and that...that _demon_ done to that sweet girl? Alder Glen is her only home, now, after—Horm! Bail Organa was our _friend_. Leia is his only daughter. He loved her, he wouldn't have wanted her to marry that wretched—"

"It's an excellent offer," Horm said, primly.

"Horseshit! It's theft! How much are you making off this? Breha wasn't in her right mind towards the end, you _knew_ , Bail confided in us that she—"

The voices moved away from the doors.

"So." Erin briskly inserted. "Alder Glen. Theodore won't want to live _there_. No, after you're married, you'll live in the guest house on our property. Only, of course, until you get settled," she mused, "until Theo learns the ropes at Empire, with young Luke." She inclined her head at Anakin, who was now making his heavy way down the table. "Then we'll build you a home of your own. Oh! We can rebuild on your family lot, next door!"

Leia's face twisted in horror at the thought of ever returning, let alone living at, that tainted, scorched, grievous site. "You're mad," Leia said, softly. "You're mad, Mrs. Isolder, truly mad if you think I would ever, _ever—_ "

Erin smiled, showing those pointed teeth. "I understand Theodore's a little rough around the edges, though hardly like that, ehrm, _foundling_ jack-of-all-trades." Erin's lips pursed in delicate distaste. "But Theo knows it's time to grow up. He's promised me he'll be a better man, the husband a girl like you deserves. No more drinking, no more brawls. As of your engagement, all that carrying on is a thing of the past."

Leia stood up, her entire body thrumming. "Keep the money," Leia hissed. "If money is what you love, Erin, then money is what you'll receive. But you may not have that land. Do you hear me? _You will not take my home._ And I will never, _never,_ marry your foul son."

Erin didn't stand. Her carefully preserved attractive mask seemed to dissolve, leaving her looking suddenly furrowed, etched, as though some essential acid of the soul had leached into her face."I was hoping you'd see reason, but Breha warned me you were headstrong." Erin's eyes rested on Anakin Skywalker, who was drawing closer, to stand now by Leia's side. Erin's voice was quick and hard. "You're right, Leia, I can't force you to marry Theodore."

"Leave Luke out of this," Leia whispered.

"Oh, Luke will be fine. Your cousin has seen reason, and will soon join us at Empire. We're making him a formal offer."

Anakin Skywalker accepted this statement with an empty nod.

"Let's say you refuse me, refuse Theodore. Are you free to? Certainly. But at what cost? Well. Where to start? I could have Shara Dameron fail her nursing course. That's not hard to do. Have no one rent to her and her husband, perhaps. And did you know that mute cook has applied at city hall for a new permit? Yes! He wants to renovate his vulgar establishment. Of course, the whole place may be shut down for good. If they find, say, rats." Erin laughed. "So. You see. There are always options."

Leia felt so many emotions at once that they converged into a kind of tornado—grief, shock, betrayal, panic, rage, fear—that swept her up, then dropped her into its numb eye.

"Yes, many choices. But I know my best cards, like any gambler. And speaking of gamblers...he's very handsome, that Henry Solo. Yes, that's his given name, according to his army records. Did you know that your Henry worked as a docker? Something to do with international shipments. Quite the drinker, I gather; lady friends too. Came home from Korea rather damaged, I understand, or maybe that was just the orphanage. Young Henry left Baltimore in quite a hurry. I do wonder why that was. I've got a man looking into that, but," Erin sighed dramatically, "the details haven't come in time for today's negotiation."

 _Han._ Leia bridled so sharply it was like a spasm. At her motion, Anakin Skywalker brought his gloved, ruined hand down on Leia's shoulder. For a wild moment, Leia believed Anakin sought to comfort her, and she craned to look up at him, as though for help. No one who'd brought anyone as pure and good as Luke into the world could be entirely without kindness. And Anakin had loved and lost Breha Organa's cherished twin sister. Surely he had some good in him, somewh—

Anakin's hand, in its sleek glove, tightened on Leia's shoulder. His grasp wasn't even quite threat, more the implication of it—in its gnarled hardness, its camouflage of leather, that ruined hand was Anakin's statement to Leia that pain and grief were omnipresent truths of life. Of all lives. That hand said, why should her own small existence be any different? To think oneself beyond such truths was an impudence that would be vehemently corrected.

Leia felt, then, the baldness of her choice. It was see her own life ruined, or be responsible for the ruined lives of everyone she loved. Shara, her baby. All Chewie's hard work, gone in shame. No telling what Erin could do to Ben as he aged. Luke—Erin and Anakin didn't know yet about Luke's upcoming abandonment, but there was still time for them to learn, and thwart it. As if he'd sensed her thoughts center on Luke, Anakin looked down at Leia, his eyes both hellish and flat. As Leia instinctively jerked back, his hand clamped.

Leia closed her eyes. Han. _Han_. Not Henry, he was Han, always her Han. Oh, Flyboy. Whatever he'd been once, whatever he'd done, Leia didn't care. But she knew Erin would ruin him if Leia didn't go along. Leia also knew Han, knew that he wouldn't back down if she told him what was going on; he would fight for Leia, for her home, and then Erin would use her power to crush his natural rebellion. The thought of her sweet, swaggering, sky-gazing man—he was, damn it, Han _was_ her man, for always—broken somehow, for her, maybe even killed, was such anguish that it weakened Leia's flesh, her bones.

If Leia married Theo Isolder, Han would never forgive her. But he would live. And he would leave. Free to fly beyond Erin's reach.

 _Mama. Mama, how could you?_

Rieekan and Horm's voices began to reappear in range. Erin finally stood. "I grow tired of asking this, so it will be the last time. My son wishes to marry you. Do you accept?"

In her mind, Leia removed herself to another planet, one she'd discovered the night her parents had died, when she'd seen her life vanish in flames. It was a gentler planet than Earth, intelligent and elegant, almost pacifist. And like a pacifist, Leia would fight with self-sacrifice. What was a person, after all? Was there a Leia? Was there ever a Leia at all, with her plans and interests and hopes and loves? Leia's nails cut half-moons into her palms. She felt no pain. This pain was so great she felt nothing.

Anakin's hand tightened still further, keeping Leia upright as her world, the world she'd only just rebuilt, was so finally and casually destroyed. _Dead hand control,_ she thought, with sick dreaminess. But she found her voice, because she loved Han and Luke. _Han. Han. Han..._ Leia thought this name with the last of her strength, as though sending some beacon of love across impossible space.

Leia said, "I accept."

Erin Isolder bared her teeth in feral triumph. "Please, darling," she said. "Call me Mother."


	24. Chapter 24

Leia dreamed of a train set she and Luke once shared. He'd spent more time at the Organas' home than his own, when they were little. The train cars connected with magnets, they could couple and separate, and toddler Leia couldn't understand why some cars repelled one another no matter what she did, no matter how desperately she tried to make them connect. It didn't bother Luke—he was content to accept and observe this invisible force—but Leia pushed and failed and pushed until she broke down in a child's raw, thwarted grief: _Hep. Hep._ Her mother had held her close. Her mother had showed her how everything fit together. When Leia was younger, and her mother stronger, Breha had been the cure for every sorrow. Dreaming, Leia could almost feel Breha as she once was; Leia could almost feel her gentle, loving, soothing mother. If Leia cried out for her now, would that Breha hear her?

"Mother," Leia whispered. "Help m—"

Leia woke in her bed. Han was lying alongside her, atop the quilt she was tucked under, leaning on an arm, holding a cool cloth to her forehead. Luke sat at Leia's feet, propped against the iron footboard. Leia tried to sit up, but was felled by a wave of dizziness. Gently, Han pressed her back, his eyes full of concern. "No, no, Princess," he said, his voice soft. "Not just yet."

"...what?" Leia croaked.

"You came down Main Street to us," Luke said. Playfully, he squeezed her foot through the patchwork, but he was anxiously scanning her. Luke would never forget the sight of Leia drifting towards him and Han as they stood outside Chewie's diner, swapping excited racing plans. Leia's face had been so bloodless. Horribly, she'd seemed to...vanish somehow, as she approached, become less substantial with every step. "You passed right out on Han." Luke shuddered, seeing it again: Leia not answering their greetings, just ghosting toward them. Frightened, Han had lunged toward her, just in time to catch Leia in his arms.

Han nodded, licked his lips. Tried for a roguish grin. "Yeah, the impact of a gorgeous guy like me can be hard to take." When Leia didn't seize the bait, Han and Luke exchanged a swift, troubled look.

Leia had quickly woken up in a booth in Chewie's, in Han's lap, though she had no memory of it. She'd flatly refused the doctor. Leia seemed weak but competent, insisted she was merely getting sick, begged Han and Luke to take her to Alder Glen. So the two men who loved her had brought her home, and she'd silently got into bed. But now, Luke thought, Leia didn't look sick—Luke had known her all their lives, and if anything they always got sick together. No, what Leia looked was smaller, flatter, almost as if her personality—her spiritual dimensions—had been reduced.

 _Compressed,_ was the word whispered by Luke's intuition. As though in some impervious, iron grip.

"Sweetheart," Han began.

"What time is it?" asked Leia, almost vacantly, staring at the dark window.

"Must be about—" Luke checked his watch. "Geez, it's almost seven o'clock!"

Leia looked at Luke, her eyes both yearning and remote, as though the cousins were separated by a thick wall of glass. She looked, thought Luke with a wild stab of grief, just the way he'd always pictured his mother: watching over him, loving but somehow trapped, kept back from meaningful contact. "You should go back before your father..."

"No way! I—"

Leia's eyes widened with a panic that showed nowhere else on her face. "Luke. Please. This isn't the time to...not right before you get...free."

Luke hesitated. Something was wrong. Very, very wrong. But he knew Leia, knew when her barriers were up, and these were as unbroachable as he'd ever seen them, an alarming reminder of how she'd been just after her parents' deaths. As he'd once told Han, you couldn't charge Leia's ramparts. They'd just have to sneak their way behind them.

"I got her, kid," Han said, not in territoriality but in reassurance. Another thing Luke would never forget was the sound Han made in his throat when Leia lost consciousness: it was a haunting sound, almost a low croon, so intimately distressed that Luke knew, all at once, just what Han and Leia had secretly become. The thought of Han and Leia together filled Luke with a curiously bereft happiness. For the first time in Luke's life, it was not him Leia needed, but another. It stung, some. And it was deeply right, at the same time.

Now Luke watched Han tuck a strand of Leia's hair behind her ear, his eyes, gone almost a soft yellow in the lamplight, reflecting both unease and veneration. _Some mercenary._ Luke smiled to himself, thinking of that two hundred dollars, of Leia's sudden new clothes. Of the prized trailer in the meadow now abandoned in favor of this new station: Han had instinctively positioned himself between Leia and the door. A gritty determination radiated from the older man; even in love—maybe especially then—Han stayed strapped for a fight, Luke noted with fond gratification. Anything that wanted to hurt Leia would have to go through Han Solo. And Luke heard, then, in his own head, Han's growl as clearly as if he'd spoken aloud: _Kid, I'm real fuckin' hard to kill._

Luke stood and kissed Leia's forehead, squeezing Han on the shoulder.

"Call me at home if Leia gets worse."

"Damn, kid," Han said fretfully. "We don't have the phone on yet."

 _We._ Luke smiled at that unconscious tell. "Then bundle her up in Millie and come get me. I don't care what time it is."

"What about your old man? Won't that set him off?"

Luke lifted his chin in a hell-bent way that struck Han as comfortingly Leia-like. "I. Don't. Care." Luke repeated. "It's _Leia_."

Han measured Luke with his eyes, then gave the fraternal nod that always made Luke feel he'd passed some vital test. Going down the new staircase, Luke heard Han try again, his tone filled with strained rascality: "Princess, this is a helluva way to get a man in bed."

A long pause stretched into no answer.

"Sweetheart? _Sweetheart._ "

Even at the base of the stairs, Luke sensed Han's amassing dread.

XXXXXXXXXX

It was past two in the morning. In the dark Han shifted, gently palming Leia's sleeping skull to settle it more securely on his shoulder. At last, some response: he felt Leia's arm cinch his waist, almost desperately.

"It's alright, Leia, I'm not leavin'," As Han said the words he wished he'd said them earlier, about everything. He closed his eyes, nestled his nose in her hair, trying to breathe away his unadmitted fear. There was this bad feeling in his gut—not merely the loss of his harmonious luck, but an actual deadness, a numb absence. He squeezed his eyes shut, breathed Leia in again. "...I'm not leavin'."

Suddenly Leia sat up. She was wearing just her slip and underthings—earlier, she had shed her clothes across the wooden floor as she made her way to the bed, such sloppy carelessness so rare, so unnerving to Han, that he'd just stared. He'd appreciated Luke gathering the clothing up, folding it over the footboard, where Leia could find it when she returned to herself. It had seemed optimistic. Now, Leia jerked at Han's gray t-shirt. Han froze— _not like this, she_ —then realized it wasn't carnality she sought, but comfort. His skin, his heat. Han tugged his shirt off, got under the quilt, and gathered her small form against him. Quivering, Leia burrowed into his chest, his neck, as though sheltering from some punishing emotional winter. He tightened his hold.

"Ah, Leia," he said. " _Tell_ me, Sweetheart. Let me in."

Han meant to wait her quaking silence out, meant to stay, stalwart and waking, alongside the suffering girl he loved. He would outwait Leia, wait until she cracked, talked, and then he'd fix it. He knew he could fix it, whatever it was; hadn't he always, all his life, fixed everything? _Leia,_ Han murmured, again and again. He didn't mean to sleep, but in her arms Han soon succumbed to the warmth and closeness he'd always craved. _Leia._ Her whispered name washed through Han like a pulling tide and drew him out into oblivion.

Quietly awake, Leia was glad of Han's lapse, to feel the tension in his body slacken. She didn't want to share Han with himself, not tonight. She needed solitude to fix him to memory. With her lips, Leia set about committing Han Solo to herself. Gently Leia kissed his face, boyish and open in sleep; kissed his twitching eyelids, his long graceful hands. She kissed Han's sandy hair, his broken nose; his full mouth, with its provocative tilt. Kissed the clean right angle of his jaw. His enigmatic scar, his throat, the beautiful notch between his collarbones; the copper filaments of hair dusting his torso. Kissed the strong, taut drum of his chest, just above the steady kick of his heart.

As she held Han tight, tighter, Leia longed for their merger—not the kind she'd pictured, not as lovers, not with the ardor she'd hoped, planned. Tonight she imagined them meshing as cells, skin, knitting bits of bone; blood, dreams, breath, pulse all synced. If she could only shrink, Leia thought, she would secret herself in some guarded chamber of Han Solo's heart and go with him into the sky. The Leia left behind could marry Theodore Isolder, become some hollow, hostess cipher, and see her people spared. So long as her heart was nestled in Han's own, somewhere, under the broad shield of his ribs, smuggled everywhere he went.

At dawn, when Leia rose, she touched Han's face with the tenderness of a departing ghost.

XXXXXXXXXX

Han didn't wake until almost noon. He felt heavy, sluggish; his head throbbed, and his throat itched. Ordinarily Han hated getting sick, feared it, even, but today he welcomed any symptoms that could provide him with an explanation for Leia's state last night.

He found Leia on the porch, in the hammock, sipping coffee. She was crisply dressed; she gave him a pleasant smile. Han smiled hesitantly back, but somewhere in him, his instincts balked. She wasn't reading, for one thing, but she wasn't looking out across the lake, either. Leia was just sitting, smiling emptily at him, her eyes anguished. Han felt a prickle up his spine. He leaned down to kiss Leia, to touch her face, and she turned her head as though by accident, letting Han's lips graze her cheek, let his hand glance away.

"Are you going racing?" Leia asked, as she offered him his mug. Han took the coffee, wincing not because he knew it would taste like acrid mud—which it did—but because this morning felt like a perverse inversion of one of his most cherished fantasies.

"I'm not gonna leave you here," he said, tightly.

"Don't be silly. I'm fine."

Han cocked his head. _Silly?_ Leia'd had some sick spell yesterday—he still felt sick to think of how she'd looked when she fainted, so drained and, and _haunted_ , and now she was acting brittle and bright as a broken mirror. And he, Han Solo, the guy who loved her, was just supposed to head off like everything was all right? As though he couldn't tell? He began to feel the type of edgy aggression that he'd long ago adopted to replace fear.

"I'm _fine_." Leia looked away, her face still calm, but her eyes clouded.

"Fine?" Han snorted. "After yesterday? C'mon, Princess. I'm not just gonna leave you here, have you pitch down the stairs or—" He broke into a slight cough.

Leia shook her head with all the imperiousness Han had believed banished from their interactions. Bristling, he stood up, setting the mug on the porch railing with a stern click. So Leia would force his hand, force him to abandon her or the team? What the fuck was going on? He felt like he'd spent the night at the foot of some tower, begging Leia to let down her hair. But this morning was different. This morning Han had brought a hammer, and wood, and nails. He wasn't a prince, after all. He was a guy with skills. His Princess wouldn't, or couldn't, come down? Alright: he'd build stairs.

"Time to go, Leia."

Leia gave a rattling laugh. "I'll be fine here! You go ahead—"

Han planted his hands on his narrow hips, studying Leia with frank lack of apology. "We both know I can carry you, Your Worship," he said. "Easy. Swearing all the way, if that's how you want it."

XXXXXXXXXX

Han knew that this was not his girl.

He'd considered taking Leia to the doctor, but what to say then? _My girl_ _ain't acting right_. He knew it was true, and knew Luke would know it, too, probably on sight, but it wasn't the kind of thing you could articulate. Han had planned to settle Leia with Shara on the hill above the Cairn Estates billboard, maybe have a quick word with the newlywed. She was in nursing, after all, and she was Leia's best friend. Maybe she'd have an idea of what to do to break this strange glassy column Leia seemed trapped in. But Shara wasn't there, today. As the Rogues grouped around their cars, Kes said she was in Mantell, taking extra classes before the school realized she was pregnant and forced her on maternity hiatus.

Janson asked, "They do that?"

Kes nodded. "She's tryin' to hide it. Lettin' out her dresses, carrying her books different." He folded his arms. "Just a matter of time, though, now. Shar's so pissed. She keeps sayin', her brain didn't die along with the rabbit."

"Wow, shit." Janson philosophized. "Being a chick sounds like a real bitch."

All the men glanced at Leia, then. Janson cringed, realizing what he'd said, anticipating the uniquely scathing wrath Leia Organa brought to his thoughtless gender-blunders. "I didn't mean it bad," Janson hastily began, like the little boy he'd once been, always being dragged before his teacher. But today, Leia just looked at him, weirdly _sad_. The way she had that night on the beach, Janson thought: she wore that bravely devastated look that had made the Rogues enclose her in their ferocious, loving ranks. He cut his eyes at Solo. Was he to blame? Janson had heard tell that he'd been some kinda ladies' man. Solo was tough, but if he'd hurt Leia, Janson would take him right on, right now. But Solo looked more troubled than anyone, watching Leia with a turbulent protectiveness. Janson saw that, if Leia _had_ been harmed, it wasn't from anything lacking in Han Solo's heart.

"Wes is absolutely right," was all Leia said, with a smile so bleak it sent needles of ice lancing into Janson's blood.


	25. Chapter 25

The heats went well, tight and fast. Kes had hit the plywood target three out of five tries. The hill soon filled with spectators; word had spread about the race, and it seemed that all of New Hope was curious about the young ragtag pack challenging the yoke of the town's elite. Leia was soon subsumed into a group of Lando's friends who'd brought alcohol in early preparation for his birthday bash that night. Leia didn't normally mesh gracefully with strangers, but today it was easier for her to be around them than it was to be around Luke, and especially Han—these people didn't know Leia well enough to understand that her emotional state was badly skewed. They didn't have Luke's intuitive insight into her, or Han's shrewd devotion. These people Leia had never grown up alongside, never kissed. These people, she could never hurt, or lose, or miss.

A bottle circulated among the group. Leia hadn't planned to drink, but she felt so cold, frozen from the inside out, and she remembered that after Starwood, Han's flask had helped. Leia accepted a whiskey and Coke in a paper cup, so harsh she choked, but at lease it was a corrosive allay of her numbness. As she drank, Leia watched Han clear that rise in Millie, again and again, to meet with Luke in R2. She was beginning to perceive the mechanics of it now, their fleet exchange, even as she grew booze-fuzzed. Every time, at the very last moment, as the billboard loomed, Han eased Millie minutely to the left, drawing Luke into a sort of middle wake. There Luke and Han let themselves fly on a current of their combined speed, carving a space both blazing and eternal enough to let Chewie and Kes complete the catch. If she was asked, Leia wouldn't be able to explain in words how it was done, but she felt it, understood it, all the same.

The crowd was buzzing about Luke and Han. The way they drove together, Han's cocksureness, Luke's unshakeable faith; money was changing hands, bets laid on the outcome of the race. Over the waxed rim of her cup, Leia watched Han stride about on his long legs, supervising engines, calling strategies in his powerful voice. Leia felt a fierce wave of pride, then a physical ache for her own young man. As though he felt her possessive thoughts, Han glanced up the hill and winked. A sudden sting threatened Leia's eyes, to think that Han was not hers for long. Leia bit her bottom lip to stop its shake—she'd thought she'd got her tears under control last night. Of course this maimed her, how could it not? To have to re-route her emotions in these tortured, strangulated ways, emotions that others indulged in, forsake experiences that others took as their due. As they should, too. As they should—Leia wasn't a petty woman; even in her own grief, she didn't begrudge others their gifts. But it was just—oh, it was just—what Leia wouldn't give for just a little more heat, with Han. A little more youth.

More of a life.

Leia shivered. The only heat her body retained, right now, was generated by sense-memory of the strong hard size of Han against her. What Leia wouldn't give to have Han, just once, that way. Couldn't she? If only once? Leia closed her eyes, petitioned the universe. Once, and then she'd let him go. She'd mapped Han last night, most of him, but she craved the translation of his secret symbols. Like the look he got, for her, when they came close, the blended predation and tenderness. The way Han's voice had gone ragged when he begged her to stop, on Millie's front seat, as though her body had dangerously abraded his self-control. That furrow in the forehead he got when he kissed her—what would Han's face reveal as she took him inside her? Leia wanted to track that sweet twisting ache she'd felt with Han when he'd kissed her so fully it was like he was trying to absorb her, when he'd rocked himself tight and slow against her. Leia wanted to track that spiral to its end, with him. _You owe me that,_ Leia screamed in her mind, screamed out to silent, insensible space.

Leia didn't think of how this could hurt Han, to draw him so close, only to drive him immediately away. She didn't imagine what such abandonment could mean to a man who was once an orphaned boy. But Leia's normally acute empathetic sense felt encased in some wall of ice, leaving her inaccessible, even to herself. As though she was marooned alone on some arctic base, a frozen outpost. All Leia could think of was Han as a man, approaching her with the sure male heat he carried in his eyes, his voice. His walk. His touch.

When the bottle came around again, Leia accepted.

XXXXXXXXXX

Leia was giddy on the ride home. Usually her happiness, her humor, delighted Han, but this was a false gaiety. He'd seen her sitting with those friends of Lando's up on the hill, didn't like leaving her, like this, with a group of near-strangers. Han hated unknown factors, and that's what last night and today felt like, to him, a foreign trip with one surreal, unreadable map. Luke didn't like it either, but what could they do? They didn't know, of course, what Han knew now that they were closer: that Leia had spent the hours he and Luke were practicing for tomorrow afternoon's race getting tipsy on cheap scotch whiskey.

Han coughed into his fist. He felt a telltale pinch in his chest, that mean holdover from the hypothermic campaign at Frozen Chosin. The chills and aches could crop up sometimes when Han got tired, stressed. Especially when he got too cold. Usually it came on in winter, and he'd hole up for a day or so, long hot showers and sleep it off, but there was no time for that now: today there was Leia, and tomorrow the race. Han kept his eyes on the road as Leia chattered and bounced. She turned the radio up and sang along with "Party Doll," a song Han had never liked, and which now magnified his headache. He bit his tongue, he bit the inside of his mouth, but finally his voice grated forth: "Leia. What is going _on_ with—"

"What do you mean?" Leia giggled, fizzily evasive. "I'm excited, I guess. For the party tonight. I've never been to Cloud City before, but..." she curled against him, under his arm, "I hear it's a...good time."

Leia's stagy purr, so unlike her normal directness, gave Han pause. _Right,_ _Lando's party tonight. Fuck._ "I dunno, Sweetheart, d'you think the party is a good plan, after yesterday?"

Leia sat up, narrowing her eyes. "Everyone is going."

Han gave a hard shrug. "Yeah, 'cause you do what _everyone does_ so often."

She blinked, then scowled. "Well, maybe I want to start."

Han swallowed a retort rooted in frustrated anxiety. This was starting to feel like the day of the gold bikini—full of fraught, unknowable emotional traps. If Han hadn't felt so disturbed, worried, teetering on the edge of sickness, he would have followed the shiver in his gut that expanded on this connection.

"Maybe I _want_ to be like everyone else," Leia went on. "Have a little fun, for once." The sudden depth of her belligerence made Han start. _Oh, shit,_ Han realized: _Leia's not just a little lit._ _Leia's really...Leia is_ _**drunk**_. He thought at once of the story Luke had told, of the night of the beach brawl, how she'd been drunk: wild, grieved, not herself. _Walk easy,_ Han's mind-voice screamed. _Walk easy, you big damn ox._

"Okay," Han said, carefully. "Okay, we'll go have fun. Sure. Good."

But the feeling Han had was decidedly bad, and now it was rising to his heart and lungs, his throat; almost choking him, like the invisible grip of some dark force.

XXXXXXXXXX

When Han came into the cabin from the Falcon's shower he thought, for a hopeful instance, that Leia had returned to normal. She had the radio on, humming along with the Big Bopper as she heated canned soup for dinner. Han watched Leia, his heart aching, as she chopped a yellow pepper on his new maple countertops. Tonight, Leia looked staggeringly beautiful. She had changed into the black sweater he'd bought her, those fitted black pants, the wee red flats. Leia's hair was arranged atop her head, both architectural and sexy, emphasizing the delicate, artful structure of her face. Her upper eyelids were winged with black liner, making her huge brown eyes even more affecting. After they ate, when Leia turned to pile their dishes in the sink, Han saw for the first time the way that sweater actually _looked_ on her: that low V revealing the creamy, sleek plain of her bare back.

 _Jesus Christ._

It was true, Leia had never looked better; she laughed with Han, she was witty, jesting. But still not right, Han admitted to himself, not _her._ Not Leia, with all Leia's curious pauses and playfulness and thoughtful depths, her collection of facts; her way of looking at him so truly and levelly that Han felt irreplaceable in her sight, in her heart. Tonight, Leia was dazzling but hard, like a sharp-cut gem. She'd found an old bottle of brandy somewhere in the cabin, was nipping at it. Han accepted a single drink, hoping that brandy would bite back at his brewing cold, but that was it. He wanted all his faculties about him at Cloud City, with Leia like this.

As they left, Han took Leia's kiss; he couldn't help it, even eagerly returned it. But his instincts, never dull, were screaming now of imminent threat.

XXXXXXXXXX

Cloud City was packed, wall to wall, throbbing with smoke and sound. The Rogues were already there, without Luke. He'd said he would catch up later.

A couple hours in, Han tugged at his collar. He was sweating, and not only because the bar was crowded and loud. This was fever-heat, rising from the inside, from some nasty viral engine. As the evening wore on Han felt hazy, almost drunk, though he wasn't drinking.

Leia was drinking enough for both of them.

None of their friends shared Leia's manic verve. The Rogues were too keyed up for tomorrow's race to be their sociable, rowdy selves. Shara said the smell of alcohol made her queasy; Chewie had stayed home, not being one for parties. Luke still wasn't there at all. For a time, Lando joined their table, and he was happily drunk himself. He and Leia fed off each other, their quick exchanges making each other and everyone else laugh. Shara watched her friend with a portion of Han's wariness. Underneath her dutifulness and reserve Leia had always been funny, Shara knew, and fun-loving, too—but tonight her liveliness had a desperate edge. It seemed, to Shara, that Leia was trying to cram too much fun into one night. She thought of a condemned prisoner, and shuddered. Han didn't seem well either, pale under his natural tan, his hairline damp, his eyes fiery on Leia when they weren't scanning the bar, scanning, scanning.

Shara took Leia aside, to the women's bathroom. "Lei. Listen. Are you all right?"

Leia fixed her lipstick in the mirror with a glassy assuredness that Shara had never seen before from her soulful friend, as though surfaces were all that existed. "Sure thing. Fine." She lifted a teasing eyebrow at Shara's middle, only just beginning to dome underneath her yellow dress. "How are _you?_ "

Shara rolled her eyes. "Sick as a dog. Sick as a _sick_ dog. But that's not the point. That's normal. And you, Leia, are _not_ acting normal. So spill, girlie."

Leia shrugged, popping her lipstick into her pocketbook. "Maybe I'm just trying to live a little," she said, with a lightness that held a warning edge. "Before. You know. We all have to grow up." And she stole another look, now apprehensive, at Shara's belly—not malicious, Shara knew it was probably unconscious, but still it stung the pregnant girl. As Leia moved off into the crowd Shara narrowed her eyes, with what Leia called her laser brain revving to full incisiveness.

XXXXXXXXXX

At some point in the night, Donna launched into a slow, throaty version of "Save The Last Dance For Me." It sounded, to Han, almost keening. And Leia went dancing. She didn't ask Han, didn't ask anyone; just drifted out onto the floor, swaying in the confetti lights, graceful hands opening in the air. Man after man looked at her, stepped subtly into her gorgeous orbit. Leia favoured none with even a glance, no word, no touch. She just swayed, alone, her eyes closed and brow knit, face almost pained with feeling. Han's heart cramped so hard he swore it folded in half. Leia looked so young and beautiful, and so tired, all at once.


	26. Chapter 26

Han was never sure, later, how it happened, who planned it. It was late in the evening, it seemed like they'd been at Cloud City for days. He lost sight of Leia somehow—he hadn't meant to, but she was a small frond in the forest of revellers, and soon he was searching for her with the maddening panic of a fever-dream. Some waitress took him aside and told him Leia had gone backstage, looking for him. Han didn't stop to think that made little sense. He just went.

He found Leia in Donna's dressing room, perched on the edge of the scratchy plaid couch. As he leaned into the doorway, gripping the jambs, she looked up at him in the warm amber light shed from the makeup mirrors. Han caught his breath: Leia looked in so much pain to see him. He crossed the floor to her in two long strides.

"Sweetheart," Han said, and sat next to her, folded her into his arms. He stroked her face with a thumb, murmuring as though to a spooked horse. "Leia. Leia, c'mon. C'mon: I can fix it, Princess. I know I can." She closed her eyes, leaned into his palm, and for a moment Han knew she was going to open to him, finally tell him what was wrong.

Then, accompanied by a series of female giggles, the dressing room door slammed shut, and locked. Leia's eyes flew open; her pain was seemingly gone, but along with it her softness, her trust. Han shot up, leaping to the door and rattling it, but it was too late. Through the wood he heard gossip, the wagers of waitresses, drifting away. "Fuck," Han sighed, resting his hot forehead against the cool plywood. The door was cheap. He could shoulder it apart, even kick it to bits, and he would, if he had to. But he'd rather not get a bill from Lando—and Calrissian would do it, too. For a moment Han paced, long legs clearing the limited space, as though in search of a weapon, or escape.

When he turned back to Leia, she was on her feet, curiously exploring the dressing room. Inquisition was a genuine Leia-trait, and for a moment hope flared in Han again. Then she leaned over a makeup counter to examine herself up close, and the sight of her like that, all arched bare back, made Han turn sharply back to the locked door. He'd had Donna right there—bent right like that—and now what had been easy fun filled him with a sullied agitation. It wasn't Donna he thought of with discomfort, not Donna herself, or even Donna in comparison with Leia, or any of that virgin-whore shit they'd spouted at Corell Home. Han was troubled solely by the specter of himself. The thought of that vast emptiness in himself, so recently lost; the thought of being cast back into it.

Han crouched, went for the knife he kept in his boot, this one a cheap replacement for the one he'd left in the door at Starwood. He'd always carried a knife, ever since the one he'd been given by Simmons as a kid. God, Han had loved that knife, with its little folding tools, its ingenuity, its promised resourcefulness. It was the first thing he ever had that was truly his. He'd slept with that knife in his hand, to guard it from bunkroom thieves, though in truth he'd always known he'd lose it. Eyeing the keyhole, Han dragged a sleeve across his face. He was really sweating, whether from nerves or illness he wasn't sure. He wasn't on the verge of collapse, but he couldn't make his thoughts connect quite right, or his actions. Han fumbled with the knife, his dexterity muddied.

"They set us up," Leia said, her voice slurred and dreamy. She sat unsteadily on the arm of the couch, watching him work. "Why would anyone—"

"Someone's trying to win a bet," Han grumbled over his shoulder, without thinking.

"What bet?"

 _Damn it._ Han rearranged his shoulders, cleared his throat. "Uh, now listen. I have nothing to do with this, all right? It's something Calrissian let slip, earlier tonight."

"What. Bet?"

Han rubbed at his neck. "It's some stupid pool, where...well, there are a lotta versions. But basically, what they're betting on is if..." Han rattled the thin blade in the keyhole with unusual awkwardness. "Uh. There are three options, you know, for." Leia watched his broad back bunch up, telegraphing his discomfort. "For a potential couple, say, who suffer from. Various tensions?" Han coughed. "Purely hypothetical. And you lay your bet on one outcome, whether they're going to—get together, um, in one of a couple of ways...or attack each—"

"Oh." Leia snorted. "Sort of like fuck, marry, kill?"

Han snapped a look at her over his shoulder.

"Han, please," Leia said. "I wasn't raised _entirely_ by sewing songbirds." Leia said this not with the warmth of their private joke, but in a contempt for herself so obvious that it hurt Han to watch. "People are betting on us, for that? But how do they declare a winner?" Leia mused. "How would they know our outcome?"

Han launched a smirk at her, trying for some of her archness. "...I guess if you come back to the party with my head on a stick?"

Leia smiled, plucking a thin gold hair ribbon from Donna's vanity table and wrapping it around her wedding finger, like a band. She held up her left hand and waggled it at him. "Think they'd believe it?"

"Sorry, Princess," Han said, and turned back to the lock. "I'm a little scruffy-lookin' for anyone to buy me as a prince." He popped the lock, dropping to one knee to sheath the knife back in his boot. The blade was bent, a bit. Stupid cheap junk, just a replacement for a knife which was itself a cheap replacement, and the one before it a cheap replacement, and so on, all the way back to the real one, the one he'd had as a boy. He'd liked that knife best, Han thought, bitterly. It was sturdy, came in handy; let him open locked doors, sneak in or out, repair machinery that was broken before anyone got punished. Han carved with that knife, whittled, felt he could defend himself against the really violent boys, if it came to that. After midnight, Han used his blade to jimmy the pantry lock when hunger kept him and his bunkmates awake. That knife had actually meant something to Han—about himself, his skills, his possibilities in this world. Not like these ones he'd picked up since, utilitarian and interchangeable.

Donna's voice carried right through the wall, singing "Mr. Sandman" in that Marilyn way she had: heartbreaking and torrid all at once.

That first knife. He'd managed to keep it until he was nearly eighteen, until he was finally busted with a girl. Patricia was a spoiled city councillor's daughter, twenty-three, and so daring she'd sought him out at Corell Home after lights-out, casting pebbles against his window. Han had known it was a terrible idea to sneak outside: he could be caned for it, get a laundry stint. But he couldn't resist the thorny rush of mingled resentment and lust. He felt shame that Patricia knew where he lived, that he was unwanted. Han had felt challenged, compelled to assert his worth.

He took her to the dark exercise yard. He'd just got her off with his hand, standing up, her back braced against rough cement, when the flashlight found him. Han sent Patricia running off into the shadows before she was identified, but he'd been caught and dragged to the headmaster's office, the guard slapping him all the way. Headmaster Shrike understood exactly what had gone on—Han's face was marked with lipstick, his trousers still open—but the nasty old man, with a prurient smirk, demanded Han say it, what he was doing out there in the exercise yard, after dark.

"Exercising," Han sneered, as he buttoned his pants.

Shrike's flexible cane lashed into Han's face. He felt a wet warmth across his chin, but no pain; Han had even given a brief, shocked laugh before Shrike hit him so hard in the gut with the butt of the stick that it put the young man down to one knee, almost retching. The cane came down across Han's shoulders, ribs, legs, ass as he curled around himself. When the weapon cracked across Han's back, Shrike stopped, breathing hard, adjusting his cuffs, leaving Han gasping and twisting on the rug. Han was sent to wash laundry for a month, to think about God, to think about meekness. He'd turned eighteen in that poisonous basement, and that was it. He collected what little stuff he had and walked out the front doors for good.

But there was no knife. Maybe the laundry staff had found the knife in his boot, and confiscated it. But something in Han knew Patricia had stolen it. This girl whose father could buy and sell him a million times over. Took it as a souvenir of the rough-trade boy she'd dallied with over the summer, before she went back to college, or married rich. Han begrudged her the loss of it, his one gift, maybe even hated her, a bit. She'd slipped his single prize from his pocket under the guise of touch.

Now, Han shook his head, chiding himself. Helplessness had a way of making him reflect on stupid shit that nothing and no one could change.

"You _are_ quite handsome," Leia said, in a drunken mock-regal tone. "I don't believe I'll have you beheaded after all."

Taking advantage of his humble position, Han swivelled on his knees to play supplicant to Leia's monarch, offering a courtly bow. "I'm grateful we've ruled 'killing' out, Your Highnessne—"

"So that leaves fucking." Leia said, recklessly.

Leia said it to provoke Han to wildness, to make him take her. She said it to prove to Han her sophistication. She said it like a kind of armor, as proof of her jaded hide. She said it to feel some, _any_ power; said it to see that cool poker face of his drop. And it did—kneeling at Leia's feet, Han gaped up at her, brow corrugated, full lips falling open with a tiny _pop_. Han Solo, of all people, was shocked.

He recovered with a tight laugh. "You're not serious."

Han got to his feet with elaborate nonchalance, but he couldn't hide the tide of dull red sweeping up from his collar. Leia knew this was her cue to laugh, too, to dismiss her statement as an uncharacteristically ribald, drunken joke. But now that her words were out they'd became an idea—a real option, taking shape in the tiny room. And Leia didn't laugh. Han didn't laugh either. Both knew that the two of them, like that, could come true—especially since other lines had been hungrily breached. And knowing sex _could_ come true, really could, right now, with Han Solo on this couch in this dressing room, made liquid heat flood Leia's belly. Made Leia step closer. Made her press on, dizzy and heedless, into the only chance for joy she could now imagine, however fleeting.

"You seemed pretty serious the other night," she said, "In your truck."

"Leia, you're trembling," Han said.

"I'm not trembling," she said, with a hard laugh. Her eyes were too bright, Han thought, with the hard gleam of ball bearings, not at all the rich luster of real-Leia's eyes. She stepped close, moving from arch seduction to barbed anguish—Han could feel it in her touch, her kiss. He tasted desperation. He tasted loss. He could feel an energy in her, frantic and angry—an animal in a trap, a creature desperate to free itself. And he'd surely turned to sex out of that himself but not with her, he was not going to do that with her. "Not like this," Han whispered. "Leia, not...like this."

"Why not, Hotshot?"

Han took a measured step back, making a short sound of disbelief in his throat. "Well, you're not—"

"Not your type?"

"C'mon, Sweetheart. You know damn well you're my _type_ ," Han said, tersely. "But you're not—look, you've been drinking...a _lot_ —"

Leia narrowed her eyes. "Because you've been sober as a judge, every time you've been with a woman?"

"I...ah, hell, that's not the same."

"Oh? Because you're a man?" She advanced on him.

"No! Because I'm..." _Not worth a damn_ , taunted the voice of Corell Home. Han held up his palms. "Leia. Listen. You don't want—"

"I want what everyone wants!" She raised her voice, startling them both. "I want to try it at least once, before—I _want_ to, with someone I—"

"Before?" Han chanced a cautious laugh. "Princess. You're talking like it's our last night on Earth!" He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "Sweetheart, Sweetheart, there's no rush—"

Leia blinked back sudden, hot tears, shaking her head sharply in frustration, slapping at his stroking hand and stepping into him, seizing his shirt. She pressed her lips against his throat and when Leia spoke again, her tone was almost ferocious. "I want to have my own experience. I want to say how it happens, too: how, when, and with whom. _I_ want to choose, Han. And I choose here, now, with you."

Her words hit Han so hard in his heart and groin that he staggered back against the vanity counter. She followed, nestling her body into his, nibbling his underjaw, splaying her small fingers across his chest. Han made a vexed sound at the ceiling, tempted, unsettled. This was not Leia. This was not Leia. It didn't matter how much he wanted Leia, didn't matter how gorgeous she was: so sexy in her loose, low-backed sweater, her skin flushed with daring, promise, lust. She wasn't herself. She was drunk. His drunk princess. His drunk virgin princess. His drunk virgin princess _who was now, oh God, peeling that sweater up over her head._ She wore a pale, slightly sheer violet strapless brassiere, peaked at the tips. Han reeled, his stare stunned, heated, yearning. Leia was glorious, some primal goddess tinted in the rosy light, her full chest rising and falling with her rapid breath. Han wanted to return to kneeling at her feet. Wanted to call her _Your Worship,_ and completely mean it.

Han closed his eyes against the rush of mixed tenderness and animal want.

 _No._ For once his gut and head were in agreement, united against other mutinous parts of his anatomy. _No._ Forget his hammering heart, his immediate hard-on; it didn't matter. He wanted Leia; God, yes, hadn't he spent months, plus this last excruciating week of actually touching her, kissing her, struggling with that? He wanted to have her, wanted her to have him, desperately wanted to feel the moment _they_ became _them_. But Han didn't want _them_ to happen like _this,_ on some strange battlefield of cryptic defences and advances. Not with a sea of alcohol between them. He didn't want them here, not in this room, not on this shabby couch where he'd already been had by someone else.

Han opened his eyes. He pushed off the counter, slowly, keeping his eyes fixed on hers, not letting his gaze travel lower. Han placed his hands on Leia's shoulders and made his voice both firm and gentle: "Sweetheart. _No._ "

He hated the hurt that overtook her beautiful eyes. Leia stepped back, out from under his hands. She asked, quietly: "But you would with Donna?"

Han winced, blindsided. "Now, hang on. Just hang on..." He trailed off, his bluster lost in truth. How to say that he couldn't do with Leia, now, what he had eagerly done with Donna? Han ground his teeth. He didn't want to scare Leia off with the depth of his feelings—he was still plenty scared to fathom those, himself. And with everything that Leia was saying, doing, who knew how she'd take it? But how to deny Leia what she was after now without confessing his weakness for her, his caring for her, his wish to be close, truly close to her?

His love for her. How to refuse Leia without declaring his love for her? It was such a bitter trap that Han gave a hollow laugh. The scorn was for himself, but Leia didn't know that; she flinched, though her vulnerability swiftly disappeared behind an icy mask. Leia knelt and scooped up her sweater. "Oh well. It was worth a try." Her voice was cool and hard. "Donna said you're good, really good—"

" _Leia_ ," Han implored.

"I just wanted someone good at it." Leia said, drunk and stung and bereft enough to fall into outright cruelty. Han felt as though he'd been stabbed; who _was_ this? This wasn't his Leia. She slipped her arms into the sweater, shrugging it over her head, giving him a wintry smile as her face emerged. "I could use a good—"

"Stop. Don't." Han barked, goring the air between them with a forefinger.

Leia smoothed the sweater down over her torso. Her voice was maddeningly casual. "That's not true, Hotshot? About you? That you're good in bed?" As though she was asking him if he was tall.

"Oh it's true," Han said, hurriedly, then cringed at his own ego. _Idiot._ He swallowed, took a chance and cradled her face in his hands. She closed her eyes."Listen, I. I can't be that guy, Leia. That's not how I feel about you."

Leia jerked back like she'd been slapped. Han grimaced as he heard his own words, how wrong they'd come out. _What? No._ _That wasn't what I meant._

She crossed to the door and pulled it open. They were engulfed in a tide of noise, music and laughter, smoke.

"No—no—Leia, wait—"

Leia turned back, her eyes already dismissive, distant. She said, with delicate venom: "Audrey Hepburn? Right. Maybe you're more of a Marilyn man after all."

And she was gone.

Han stood a stunned, horrified moment—how had his beautiful week gone so hideously, dizzyingly wrong? What was wrong with his girl? What the hell was going on? He was sure, a swooning second, that he was going to throw up. Then Han moved, decisive and fast, his long gait catching Leia on the dance floor. He caught Leia by the elbow, spinning her to face him. He saw anticipation there, in her face: surprise, but no anger, just a wild, shocked hope. Han opened his mouth, not sure how he'd tell her the frightening truth about his feelings, the whole truth: only that he _would._

Now.

"Leia." Han said, and took her hands in his. "I."

A braying voice cut in. "Really, Leelee? The odd-jobs guy?"

The anticipation in Leia's eyes flashed to pure rage. Theo Isolder's blond crew-cut was brushed to even spikes; he was wearing a plaid sport-coat and red tie, like any prep on a big date.

"Who the fuck let _you_ in?" Han barked.

Smirking at Han, Theo inclined his chin at Ruby, over by the bar with her tray. Theo began to say something further; Han felt his own face turn murderous. Then Theo seemed to bite his tongue, become curiously respectful. He held out his hand to Leia with stilted courtesy, like he'd practiced in an etiquette class. "Come on, Leia. Mother wants me to see you home."

Leia turned back to Han. She gave him an anguished look, as long and deep and heated as all of their kisses.

Han tightened his hands around hers. "Leia, I lo—"

Theo cleared his throat impatiently. Han wheeled and snarled at him, really snarled, guttural and lethal, like a threatened animal. Leia gave Han's hands one crushing squeeze. She wanted to shriek; she almost said what was going on. But the look on Han's face, feral and protective, stopped her. He was prepared to fight, but he didn't know the forces amassed behind his enemy. "Han," Leia said, her voice loving, gentle. She touched his cheek. When Han looked back into her face, Leia slowly shook her head, the sweet fire in her eyes curdling to dull, resigned tears. And then Leia carefully withdrew her hands from Han's and turned to Theo Isolder. She let him take her tiny hand in his square, meaty paw, let him lead her off.

Han couldn't move, fixed in sick shock, feeling like he'd been shot in the guts, in the heart. His bones hollowed. Leia was swallowed in the crowd. And then, electrified by her loss, Han followed, fighting through dancers, lunging out to the parking lot. Theo's taillights were just turning out onto the country road. Han ran to Millie. He couldn't lose them, let Theo take Leia somewhere—up the road, maybe, like Lookout Point, and—no, oh fuck. Leia was drunk, and not in her right mind. In a cold metallic sweat, pedal pressed to the floor, Han slammed the heel of his hand repeatedly against his forehead. _Stupid. Solo, you stupid, stupid,_ _ **stupid**_ _bastard. If you'd only kissed her, kept her a little longer—_

Han heard a siren, saw the flashing lights in his rear-view mirror. _No. No. No! Fuck!_

Author's Note: Why I do this to these beloved characters, I do not know. Gotta have some evil. But rest assured, my friends, things won't always be so bleak for poor Han and Leia. Tune in next week, when New Hope, Indiana earns its M rating! (Eeek.) Not with Leia and Isolder: no one's here for that. Or, if you are, you're gonna be disappointed. Xo!


	27. Chapter 27

Author's Note: Sorry for delay! That was one aggravating week.

I can't thank you all enough for your support. Your comments, observations, and encouragement have truly stunned and moved me, as well as motivate me to wrangle with this beast. Thanks here, too, to any of you who are Guests or otherwise impossible for me to personally write to (or anyone I've missed, this site messes with me sometimes)—your interest, input and participation is likewise deeply appreciated. Thank you forever. Sigh. Why you gotta get a girl all weepy?

On with the (marathon) show! Xo.

XXXXXXXXXX

Officer Crix Madine was pissed. He had his siren on, his flashing lights, and still this cowboy would not pull over. Madine accelerated; the truck did, too, with surprising force considering it looked so beat-up. The cop raised his eyebrows. He was a guy who liked a bit of excitement, and so far his transfer to No Hope, Indiana had provided none. Not for the first time, Madine chewed his tongue in frustration: he still couldn't believe those corrupt bastards. Be too good a detective, get your ass bounced.

As the Chevy sped up still more, Madine shook his head. Who the hell did this guy think he was? Still, he had some real balls, driving with the pinpoint spatial flair of the hotshot pilots that Madine had gunned for in the Second World War. Madine glanced ahead, down the road, squinting at an upcoming exit sign. Lookout Point. Just as the exit approached, Madine poured it on, gambling that though his quarry wouldn't signal, he was headed for the turnoff nonetheless. Sure enough, at the last second the truck dropped the throttle and Madine spurred his cruiser on, passing the truck and sharply pulling in to block its path. This gambit could have gone badly wrong if the Chev hadn't stopped in time, but the truck driver's reactions were swift; he stood on his brakes, angled the nose just enough to avoid collision. It was slick driving, Madine thought with a wild grin, his heart pounding with welcome thrill as he fell back into his seat.

Getting out of the cruiser, Madine heard the other driver unleash a howl of obscenities. As he approached in the light cast from both vehicles' headlamps, Madine could see him through the truck's windshield—he was panting, the eyes turned on Madine narrowed and baleful, a glittering gold, almost animal. Rapid impressions ran through the detective's mind: young. Scared. _Furious_ , but Madine went with the honed instincts that told him this kid—what was he, 24, 25? Madine himself was 36—posed no danger to him. Still, something was up. Approaching the open window, Madine considered whether this kid had stolen the truck.

Madine took in the kid's affect, edgy and sheened in sweat, fingers twitching on the wheel. Still, the older man kept his voice lazy. "Boy, what the hell are you playing at? Didn't you hear my siren?"

"Uh, sorry," The kid said, trying for sheepish. "I was just at the bar, down the way—real loud, and I—" He tugged at an earlobe. "I guess my ears are ringin' a little."

Madine snorted. "That's a new one." He frowned. "How much you had to drink?"

"A brandy at about seven," the kid said, promptly. "Nothin' since."

Madine regarded him with amused skepticism. "Young buck like you, ginger ales all night?"

The kid shrugged. "Gettin' a cold." This was so apparent that the kid didn't have to sell it. His voice was thick, his breathing labored, his eyes shadowed; never mind the shake to his hands.

"License," Madine said. He studied the paper document with interest. _Henry Solo. 7/9/32. 6'1"; 180. Hazel eyes, brown hair._ Seemed to check out."Baltimore, huh?"

"Yeah." Henry replied, with careful neutrality.

"Small world," the cop said. "Me too."

You could almost hear the kid's mouth go dry, but he tried to smile. "Yep, ol' Clipper City. Listen, Officer, I really—"

"We called it Mobtown, in the precinct." Madine enforced sudden, intense eye contact. "Which part?"

"Huh?"

"You come from Mobtown, Henry. I asked you which part."

The kid's throat worked. He had a frantic look now, gesturing at the sign for Lookout Point, straining forward in his seat as though he needed to get somewhere fast. "Look. I got no time—"

Officer Madine interrupted him, his voice hard and jocular. "Okay, I'll start. Me, I was in vice, down on the docks." Sensing the young man's energy spike, Madine felt a rush of gratification that his instincts were still honed right. God, he missed the game. Somehow he felt grateful to this wily boy for his very wiliness.

Henry said, grimly, "I was born and raised downtown." He broke off into coughs. "Please. I don't wanna get into this now, okay? I _can't_ get—"

"Why'd you leave?" Madine's tone was innocuous, even pleasant. "I didn't want to, personally. But sometimes you're a little too good at your job, if you know what I mean, and then you find yourself shipped to Nowheresville, Indiana." Madine's smile was raptorial. "So. Why'd _you_ leave, Henry Solo?"

Henry turned with such sudden aggression that Madine almost felt a jolt and crackle as their gazes connected. In those odd eyes Madine saw the blistering, suicidal willingness of every hotshot pilot he'd ever known. The kid bit it out between gritted teeth: "I pissed off Jeb Hutt."

In Madine's true-cop's head and heart, all his bored toying ground to a dead halt. "Did you just say—"

"You heard me, vice man," Henry rasped. "And I'll tell you whatever you wanna know about what I did if you let me go up Lookout Point, _now_ , and get my girl."

Madine was incredulous. "You're telling me you'll talk _Jeb Hutt_ if I help you make time with _a girl?_ "

Henry gave his head a short, sharp shake. " _My_ girl. _I'm_ her—she's drunk, okay? She's up there with a real creep and I gotta..." He made a growling sound and jammed the heel of his hand against the wheel, pressing himself back into his seat as though at the limits of his restraint.

Madine massaged his jaw as though he had all the time in the world. His cop's antennae could feel a boiling heat radiating from the kid—not just fever, but rage, fear, desperation. Guilt. In himself Madine relished the return of his much-missed hunger for duel, for chase. _Jeb Hutt._ "Let me guess. I let you go up there, and joke's on me, I'm waiti—"

" _You_ go!" The kid cut in. " _You_ go, then! Aren't you listening? Get my girl outta that car. It's a Corvette, got it? Her name is Leia. Organa. Get. Her. Out."

"Riiiight," Madine scoffed, testing the tension. " _I_ go, and then you're long gone—"

"I'm not fuckin' around!" Henry boomed, his voice seeming too powerful for his age. He yanked his keys from the ignition and slapped them into Madine's hand. Madine's eyes widened. "I'll wait right here," Henry said, his tone raw and urgent, a faint whistle of illness underneath. He raised his hand and stabbed a shaking finger at the Lookout Point sign. "I'll wait here all goddamn night, if you want. Just get. My girl. _Out of that car_. Right now."

"Huh." Madine regarded the kid with brusque respect. He wouldn't say he liked Henry, exactly—Madine didn't really like anyone except Mrs. Madine and the little Madines—but he acknowledged his guts, his commitment. "You want me to take her home?"

The young man shook his head. "You know Chewie's diner?"

XXXXXXXXXX

Leia felt trapped in fog. Her vision was blurred, and the hard bucket seat under her had none of the homey give of Millie's bench. Someone was leaning close to her, stroking her hair, her neck. The hand was large, but it wasn't Han's; the touch was too...greedy, thick. Every cell in her body knew that, and rebelled. "Don't touch me," Leia mumbled, pushing the hand away.

"I just wanna kiss you," Theo whined.

Leia shook her head. It was almost impossible to speak; all she saw was Han's drawn, stricken face as she left him there, on the dance floor. Was that the last image she'd ever have, of him? She wanted to cry. She wanted to be sick.

"You are going to _marry_ me, Leelee."

The statement slammed in Leia's head like a door. It was like Starwood, it was going to be like Starwood, her life from now on would be Starwood. Starwood, only she would never look up to see Han and Luke, there to—

"Yes," Leia said, as coldly as she could when her tongue felt so large and clumsy, when she was on the edge of grief and panic. "Isn't that enough?"

"Shit, no." Theo made a sound of porcine amusement. "The least you can do is—"

Theo's clammy fingers worried at her bare shoulder. Leia jerked away. She'd had such sweet hopes for this sweater. It had been Han's wry, hot mouth she'd imagined at her collarbone, her spine, not the mean, greedy lips of Theo Isolder. She pushed him off. But Theo thrust his bulk forward, pressing her back against the Corvette's door. Even through the sheltering numbness of drink, Leia's blood pumped to a roar in her ears. "Stop. Stop. _Stop_ —"

The passenger door opened, tumbling Leia to the seat, flat. Theo looked up from Leia, his eyes startled and hostile in the beam from the flashlight. Leia bent her head back, squinting, to see a stocky blond police officer, sporting facial hair that looked like the little brother of Chewie's own mighty beard.

"Miss Organa? I'm Officer Madine. I've been told you're in distress."

"Aw, bullshit," Theo spat, sitting up. "Who the hell told you that?"

The cop's cool blue eyes flicked over Theo. He looked back at Leia, and those eyes warmed. "Just some cocky son-of-a-gun I had to pull over. Howlin' his way up here. Sound familiar?"

Leia's heart clenched. Dumbly, she nodded, letting Madine help her upright.

Theo tossed up his hands."Jesus, is that bastard gonna pop up every time—"

Ignoring Theo, Madine added, "Real wild driver. Says you're his girl."

"Leelee is _not_ Solo's girl!" Theo almost yelled. Reddening, he gripped his fancy racing wheel in both hands, as though reassuring himself, Madine thought, about his possessions.

Madine smiled faintly, thinking of the zealot dedication in Solo's face. "Well, he's sure her boy."

Theo ground his teeth.

"Is Henry telling the truth?" he pressed Leia, not unkindly. Her deeply lidded eyes struggled to track him. The poor girl was absolutely tanked, Madine thought, and she couldn't have weighed much more than a hundred pounds.

"No!" yelled Theo. Without looking at him, Madine held up a warning hand.

"Yes—I. He's my. Han." Leia touched a temple. "I—I do feel rather ill, sir." Even slurring, Madine noticed, the girl was striving for politeness.

Theo gave Leia a flabbergasted look that quickly shaded petulant. Madine didn't like that look. He'd seen it before, that seething, peevish ownership, back when he was called to domestics.

Madine nodded at Theo. "You have no objection to my escorting this young lady home."

Theo was not smart enough to realize he hadn't been asked. "No! I mean, yeah—she's my fiancee!"

"Do you object to my escorting _your fiancee_ home?"

"I." Theo began.

Madine cocked an incredulous eyebrow.

Sullenly, Theo said, "...no."

Madine helped Leia to her feet on the gravel and walked her, obviously reeling, to his cruiser, settling her in the passenger seat. Groaning, she closed her eyes and rested her head on the glass. He shook his head. This girl was in rough shape—just a tiny little thing, too, alone with that big blond kid who felt entitled to everything—everyone—he saw. Madine thought of his own wife, Nancy, also a very small woman, and chewed his tongue. That kid _was_ a creep. Henry Solo (or, had the girl said, _Han_?) had told him the absolute truth about that. Which meant...

Which meant he might be telling the truth about Jeb Hutt.

Crix Madine shook his head. It wouldn't do to let that buzzing in his blood get the best of him. He'd been after Hutt for years, and was always hungry for more information on the bulky, sinister mobster—it had been Hutt, he suspected, who'd got Madine bounced to the sticks. He knew Solo could be full of it—lots of people from Baltimore knew of Jeb Hutt enough to drop his name—or now refuse to talk. But Madine's canny cop gut didn't play that. He'd seen the raw sacrifice in Solo's eyes. The kid was willing to barter himself to get his girl out of what Madine heartily agreed was a dangerous situation.

Frankly, Madine respected the hell out of that.

He was also a little impressed by how quickly the kid had read his own motivations. _Clever bastard._ And it also made him wonder: what was this Leia doing engaged to this spoiled jerk in the Corvette, and not the brave crazy clever kid, if they cared for each other? Madine snorted—sure, the speed demon had too much swagger for his own good. But he'd gone all in on the safety of this little drunk woman. That big corn-fed sucker was just trying to paw her.

Madine strode back to the Corvette and leaned down into the driver's window, staring steadily into Theo Isolder's broad, red face. He spoke with amiable menace. "Listen, puke. You don't grope a drunk girl, what the hell is wrong with you? You ever do that again, someone's gonna feed you your teeth." As though casually, Madine flexed the fingers on his right hand.

The spoiled blond's eyes bulged with a shock that Crix Madine, the son of a docker, found gratifying. This kid in his expensive car, his tailored jacket, had obviously never been talked to like that—not by a cop, not by anyone—though Madine was certain that this was not his first time doing something wrong. Everyone else must have let the rich kid slide. Madine sighed. So there were alliances between rich people and bad cops even out here in Nowheresville, too? One more goddamn job for him to do.

"Um, she's my _fiancee?_ " Theo reminded, with showy condescension.

"Don't matter. She's barely awake, for Christ's sake." Madine gave a shark's smile as he straightened. "I'm gonna advise her not to marry you."

"You can't—who—you don't," Theo spluttered. "Don't you know who I am?"

"Sorry, fuckbird," Madine said, mildly, as he walked away. "I'm new to this town."

XXXXXXXXXX

Years of camping trips with his beloved father, and then his time in Korea, had left Chewie a light sleeper. He woke quickly and completely as the cruiser pulled up outside the diner. He'd made it downstairs and to the door, tying his furry brown robe, just as the heavy fist rapped the glass. Chewie immediately recognized the cop: He liked his burger medium-rare. He was gruff, but a good tipper. His wife had kind eyes, and they often bought their sons root-beer floats. Plus: beard, which always elevated a man in Chewie's esteem.

The cop asked him, "Do you know a Leia Organa?"

Yes. Of course. Was she all right? Chewie felt a pinch of fear, knowing that Han and Leia had gone to Lando's party tonight.

"She's just fine. Well." The cop looked back over his shoulder to the curb, where he'd parked his cruiser. "She'll be all right tomorrow. Do you know a Henry Solo?"

That one, Chewie didn't answer. He wasn't going to talk about Han to any cops—especially ones who called him _Henry_. The cop raised an eyebrow at the silence. Chewie folded his massive forearms. After a moment the cop shrugged. "He asked me to leave his girl here with you, for the night. She's drunk the entire Kessel River dry, so she's in rough shape. You good for that?"

Chewie gave the cop a vehement _yes._ But where was Han?

"He's not injured," was all the cop would say, leading Chewie out to the cruiser. Chewie picked the unconscious Leia carefully up from the seat, and was about to demand that the cop level with him, beard-to-beard. Then Leia Organa opened her big bleary eyes and said, in tones of perfect social regret, "Hello, Chewie. I'm going to be sick."


	28. Chapter 28

On his back on the bare steel bunk, Han felt tortured; he'd coughed until his chest buzzed with almost electrical discomfort. The damp cell didn't help, though Madine had left the metal door open, preserving the illusion that Han wasn't exactly under arrest. He was allowed to keep his clothes, his jacket and boots, although they took his knife. In return he was issued toothpaste, a cheap toothbrush. Then Madine said he had things to do before he could talk with Han. _Sure you do,_ Han thought, cynically observing this power gambit. For an hour or so Han sat, knees under his elbows on the bunk, not wanting to send signals of weakness by resting. As the night wore on, Han began to wonder: had Madine forgotten about him? Was he _ever_ going to ask Han any questions?

Suddenly, Han felt a new chill, deeper than his fever-shivers. What if Madine was on the take? Lots of the vice dicks were. The guy could be on the phone right now to Jeb Hutt, who would call his man Boba Fett...

Han took a breath, trying to gird himself. Fuck it. Fuck it. It was worth it. On the drive to the station, in the cruiser, Madine had told him he'd delivered Leia safe to Chewie, no harm done to her. But he'd added, "You were right: that blond kid is a real handsy prick. Poor little thing, she was just about _out_."

This had made Han's own hands curl into helpless, trembling fists. _God, if—if_ —he shook his head, to rout the terrible possibilities. It hadn't happened. So if this was what it took, to see Leia safe, fine. Han would do it this way again every time.

After a couple hours, Han brushed his teeth, splashed his face and tried to sleep. He maybe did; it was hard to distinguish dream from sick struggle to process the last two days. Leia was there. All night. Always. He'd lost Leia, somehow, and had to find her. Then he'd see her, and she'd recede, no matter what he said or did. This went on and on in a maddening, grievous cycle that left Han twitching and whimpering as he dozed. "They didn't ask me any questions," Han kept babbling at her, at dream-Leia. "They didn't even ask me any questions."

At about seven am a desk-cop escorted Han to a small room, seated him at a table. There was no window, no tape recorder, not even a pen and pad of paper. Madine entered, with coffee. He paused inside the doorway. The kid was sprawled with almost hostile indolence, chair tilted back against the wall, index finger worrying at a chip in the paint. One long leg was bent against the table, the other outstretched, foot planted on the floor. Madine enjoyed Henry Solo's nervy style. Still, the attitude was a hard sell; the kid was obviously ill, shivering and pale.

"Henry. You don't look so good."

Madine shut the door; _he_ looked fine, even cheerful. Han scowled, realizing Madine had gone off home and caught himself a night's sleep. Huddled into his pilot's jacket, Han said, "It's Han."

Sitting in his own chair, Madine plunked a coffee in front of Han. "That's not what your ID says."

Casually Han reached out for the steaming mug, refusing to display any need or gratitude. "Henry is the name they gave me in Corell Home. But my name is Han. My mother called me Han."

Madine cocked his head. "You were in Corell?"

"Yeah." Han drawled. "Think anyone'll adopt me?"

Madine's lips twitched. "How long?"

"Three to eighteen." Han said flatly, and tried his coffee. It was surprisingly good. The older man sipped his own, made a thoughtful sound. "Busted that place a few years ago."

Han looked sharply up.

"Corruption. The old guy who ran the place was skimming government funds. Thing went full feds."

"Shrike's...in jail?"

Madine shook his head. "Shot himself."

Slowly, Han lowered his chair legs to the floor. His fingers went unconsciously to his scar.

"Where'd you go when you aged out?" Madine asked.

"Army."

"See action?"

"Korea. Chosin Reservoir. Me an' Chewie."

"Huh." Madine eyed Han. Chosin, he knew, was an ugly, gruelling campaign. "Heard it was cold."

Han said, levelly, "Enough to freeze the guns." He glanced at Madine, gauging his age. "You in the big one?"

Madine nodded. "Air force. Rear gunner." He glanced at Han's pilot's jacket. "You interested in flying?"

"Yeah, I—" Looking around the room, Han seemed to come back to himself, his flare of enthusiasm contracting into suspicion. He set his lips, hunching deeper into his jacket.

"Look, Henry. Han." Madine sat forward, catching Han's eye. "You got the wrong idea about what's going down here. I'm not interested in fucking up your life. I just want you to tell me what happened with you and Jeb Hutt. Off the record."

Han blinked. "Off the—what good does _that_ do you?"

"I want to see the full Jeb Hutt picture," Madine said, his voice low. "So I want your puzzle piece. That's it. And for now, that's a picture I want to keep to myself."

Han folded his arms, smirked. "You don't know what I did, yet. What if I did something real bad? You just gonna let me walk outta here?"

Madine snorted. "Save the hard-boiled routine, kid. I've seen _real bad_. And _real bad_ doesn't risk jail to protect some girl." He checked his watch. "Time's ticking," he added, looking slyly at Han. "See-your-girl-time."

Han cleared his throat.

Back from Korea, Han had got work on the Baltimore docks. Because he was bright, he was quickly promoted to work in international shipments. He helped allocate incoming material, boarding just-docked ships to inspect and classify freight, then pass it through. It was an open secret that Jeb Hutt had a strong presence on the waterfront; Han knew the game, knew to look the other way when crates contained weapons or drugs. That hadn't bothered Han. He'd been drunk most of the time, and at that point even his own life had seemed to have little to do with him, let alone the arcane dealings of gangsters.

"You get kickbacks?" Madine interjected.

"It was never obvious as that, right? Sometimes there'd be more in my pay packet, yeah, a coupla bottles in my locker. And I knew why, and I sure as hell didn't give it back. But no one ever came up and said, 'Hey buddy, let this through for Hutt and we'll slip you some bucks.' Nothing like that. It was just...understood. You let this in, you keep your guts." He looked at Madine. "C'mon. _You_ know."

Madine conceded this point by gesturing at Han to proceed. Han shifted in his hard chair, dragged his fingers through his hair. He was sweating again, the blurred edges and harsh colors of fever making the ugly memory still uglier. It was last spring, he finally explained. In a dark adjunct hold of a ship just in from somewhere in Europe, Han had stumbled on a clutch of women. Girls. Very young, starved, catatonically scared, cut, bruised; clothing torn; some bound, some weeping; they huddled together in a filthy steel shipping container. Han had gone back up to the light, his face carefully empty, and walked off the docks. There was a payphone on the main wharf, but he didn't use that. Instead, he'd jogged up several blocks and called in an anonymous tip to the cops.

Madine fought to control his expression. He'd been on that raid. Those girls, headed for Jeb Hutt's topless bars and brothels, his notorious private parties, had ended up in social services. One of them was twelve. "Where was that phone?"

"Outside the Buck Wynn grocery," Han said, promptly.

Madine, who remembered the traced phone records, acknowledged this passed test.

Then Han had, with elaborate calm, walked back to his apartment, already hearing the scream of sirens. Chewie had moved to New Hope, and Lando, seeing a chance to finally get into the bar business cheap, had soon followed. Han was left living in the city alone, the din and night and loneliness closing in so tight that sometimes he'd have to drive back the dark with a bottle, with a woman. As he'd thrown his clothes into his army duffel, he'd shuddered to picture those huddled girls. Han needed women, yes. Maybe he used them, even, he admitted to Madine, had admitted to himself as he'd hauled out of town in Millie, trying to get some distance before anyone connected him to the raid. But any women he'd used had cheerfully, equally used him back. Han had never used—would never use—a woman like _that_. It was—slavery. It turned his stomach. So no: Han didn't know why he did it. He just did, and then ran for his life, ran to Chewie, the only person on earth he trusted.

Then, that is.

Madine sat back. None of this was new information; nothing Han Solo had told him could make a case. But the kid had kept up his end of the bargain. And he'd made the call in the first place. Madine had always wondered who that anonymous tipster was; certainly there had been other human shipments that many people had let pass. Madine had always wanted to reward the caller. _Good for you, Hank,_ Madine thought, splitting the difference on this funny kid's names. _Good for you._ Madine would let Han Solo go, let him put his stubborn crazy ass to work on getting right with his girl.

Getting into the black-and-white for the ride back to the kid's truck, Madine invited Han into the front seat, this time.

"One thing I always wondered, about that case," Madine said, as he drove. "When you called, you didn't say you'd found a bunch of abducted foreign girls. You said there was a violent crime in progress, on that ship."

"You'd get there faster," Han said. "And I didn't want to say Jeb Hutt, and red-flag any corrupt cops."

 _Clever bastard,_ Madine thought, again. "But you said _rape._ Why that? Why not a fire, or a fight, or a murder? You called it in as rape."

Han shrugged, looked away, out the window. "You sayin' it wasn't?"


	29. Chapter 29

The diner had never jumped so hard. Every booth was crammed, the tables too, full of people excited for the race. Looking out the pass-through, Wedge Antilles gave a low, worried whistle. The team had agreed to meet in the diner kitchen at two. It was one forty-six. No Solo, yet. And still no Luke.

There was a buzz over at the corner booth, where Shara and Marci, Donna and Willa, heads together, were sharing a single newspaper. Annie was leaning over their shoulders to read, and Wedge was of a mind to yell at her—the diner was slammed, plates of food backing up on the counter—but then he noted Suzette was over there too, holding a pot of coffee. _Suzette_ , who worked so hard and efficiently Wedge had always been afraid to let her down. Their buzz was an unhappy buzz, Wedge thought, like the girls were a cloud of distressed, territorial bees.

The doorbells jangled. Solo. About damn time, Wedge thought, then noticed how Solo looked: awful. So rough that Wedge sucked air in through his teeth. Solo's hair was wild, his unshaven face white and damp. Dark circles under his hectic eyes. Wedge could hear his growling cough. Would he have stayed out drinking all night right before their big race? That didn't seem like the same man who'd been so adamant about their practise, their plans.

As Solo wove through the crowded tables, scanning—for Leia, of course for Leia, Wedge knew—the atmosphere in the diner changed. Everyone seemed to stop talking when Han stalked past—and, now that Wedge noticed, every table seemed to be huddled over a newspaper. Wedge glanced at Janson, who was letting scrambled eggs overbrown as he stared down at his own newspaper. Hold up. Since when did Janson _read_?

"Janson," Wedge hissed, snatching the pan of eggs from the gas flame. "What's the dope?"

XXXXXXXXXX

Moving through the diner, Han was thinking only of Leia. Was she at a table? In a booth? Maybe still upstairs, sleeping it off? He couldn't call the cabin, so he thought he'd stop here first, see if she was still with Chewie. Today, he was going to straighten them out. Today. Before the race. Han was going to tell Leia that he loved her, wanted to stay with her, if she'd have him. He'd tell her what he'd just told Madine, even, just so there were no secrets on his end—and then he'd help Leia unshoulder her secret, too. Whatever it was. Whatever it was, they—

Han heard his whispered name. He froze, the back of his neck prickling. He turned, and a table of prepster boys and girls dropped their stares at once. Exhausted, puzzled and wary, Han looked around the diner. All right, so he knew he'd looked better—Han was feeling pretty lousy now, maybe even leaning slightly over. But illness couldn't explain the looks he was getting: some furtive, some amused, some compassionate; some simply hungry for local news. Han gave his pounding head a slow shake. Maybe he was hallucinating.

Then he turned to see Annie's face, blotchy pink, her pale gray eyes full of tears. Sure, Annie once cried for joy when Chewie gave her an ice cream sundae, and pinkened whenever Luke Skywalker smiled—but this was different, this was...different.

"...what?" Han demanded, suddenly seized with cold terror. "Is it—is Leia all right?"

Biting her lip, Annie looked at Shara. The normally resilient Shara just looked sick. Even tough Suzette winced as she gave him the newspaper. Tearing it from her hands, Han scanned the text. The gossip column? Why—

 **Hello, gossips! Esther is hearing rumors of an engagement between Mrs. Erin Isolder's son Theodore and her ward, Miss Leia Organa, daughter of the late Mr. And Mrs. Bail Organa...**

Han swallowed the pure fire in his throat. _Fuck. What._

 **A source is quoted: 'Miss Organa is like family to the Isolders...Leia has been Theo's lifelong sweetheart.'**

Briefly, Han closed his eyes, but the word—his word, _hers_ —remained in his mind as though branded there, just as hot as he'd breathed it against Leia's neck. _Sweetheart, oh. What you do, Sweetheart: what are you trying to do to me._

 **Esther hears Mrs. Isolder is planning a small, private family wedding over the Thanksgiving holiday. But a little birdie says that a large reception will be held later this summer at the Organas' beloved heirloom property at Alder Glen, a celebration open to the entire town...**

It had to be a nightmare, Han decided. Yeah: he hadn't slept much last night, and maybe he was sleeping now, drifting off the road in his truck. Smashed. Crushed. Or he was trapped in one of those terrible paintings Luke had shown him in some art book. What was the word Luke had used? _Surreal._ At the time Han had called them bullshit, all them melting clocks, trains steaming from fireplaces. But now, Han thought, they made a kind of hideous sense.

He looked up from the paper, giving the restaurant patrons an incredulous half-smile. _Come on_. It was a prank, that's all. A stupid joke. The girl of his goddamn dreams, Leia Organa—his Princess, _his_ Sweetheart—could not be _marrying_ that...that useless rich-boy bully punk. Leia was not going to invite the whole damn town to celebrate her wedding to _Theo goddamned Isolder_ at the home Han had been so carefully fixing up, for her. Han thought of the wood he'd planed and sanded and stained to satin, the cheery paint, the fucking flower boxes he'd fixed to the windows. He begrudged Leia none of his work and never would, no matter what—but the thought that he'd been unwittingly preparing the scene for _that—_

The silence of the diner was rent with the tearing of newsprint in Han's spasmodic clutch.

 **...on the 9** **th** **of July, 1957.**

"That's my birthday." Han stated, with ghastly blandness, to a wash of blurry faces. Frantically Annie looked to Shara and Suzette, Donna and Willa, who always knew what to do. But Shara, Suzette, Donna and Willa just stared at Han, too, in futile empathetic agony.

Someone entered the diner, then, from the kitchen, behind him. Han knew who it was from the way the atmosphere in the room electrified, crackling along his skin. His mangled newspaper dropped to the floor. As Han turned, he felt thick blood throb in his neck, his temples, the backs of his hands. The pressure rose, the heat, until he began to feel numbly remote from himself. As he crossed the floor to her, as he stopped before her, Han felt he was floating, unaware—uncaring—that everyone in the diner was hushed and staring. He was past concerns of humiliation. The world had contracted to only Leia.

Like him, Leia was wearing her clothing from last night, paler than Han had ever seen her—ashy gray, her eyes shadowed. Her hair was rumpled, her sweater creased, trousers wrinkled. This time, Han's yearning imagination could summon no tender backstory for her deshabille. He knew Leia's appearance had been crumpled by the same forces as his own—proof of use, of isolation from the wholesome rhythms of what had become their shared daily life. Han thought, distantly, how silly it was, how futile it was to try to be your best self, every day, and put it forth into certain damage.

For a long, agonizing moment the pair stared at one another. They stood close together, but across a gulf of everything they'd shared—every story, every kiss; explosions and chores and jokes and lessons; each small and large liberation. Private, public, promised, passionate—it was all precious to them, everything precious to Han and Leia lay now between them. Neither of them dared to look down into that chasm.

"It's not true." Han's voice was eerily calm.

Leia's chin—that sweet chin that she thrust up like the prow of her stubborn little ship, when they fought; that chin that fit just so between Han's thumb and forefinger, when he nudged her upward into his kiss—wobbled, and her eyes screamed _No._

"You're not engaged." Han wore a face like thunder. "To... _him_."

The patrons of the diner held their breath, some in horror, others in titillation.

The trembling of Leia's chin reached her cherry-tinted lips, and her eyes flooded. But Leia nodded.

Han faltered in his stance: frowned, winced, shook his head. His smile was so small; it held a persistent, childlike faith in fairness and reason that, after the life he'd led, had no business on Han Solo's face or in his system of belief.

"...Leia?" Han's voice was strained, his eyes beseeching.

Leia shook her head harder, pressing her lips together, her closed eyelids sluicing water down her cheeks. Somehow her tears reminded Han where they were. He seized her hand and led her, in several swift strides, out the jangling diner door.

Out on the sidewalk Han cupped Leia's shoulders, speaking in rapid, frantic scattershot. His floaty disorientation was lost in the chill air, in the chill of fear. "Leia. Leia, Sweetheart, whatever they've said, whatever they've told you—we'll—Jesus, _Jesus,_ Leia, you _can't—_ " Han paused, fighting down panic, bargaining wildly with Leia, with fate. "Would you talk to me? There's gotta be something we can do. There's something we can do, to fix this. But you gotta _talk_ to me, Princess." He gave her a quick, cajoling smile, familiarly tilted, but sick. "C'mon, Sweetheart: don't make a guy beg."

The tears streamed from Leia's huge brown eyes. She seemed to waver. Han's own eyes flared green with a last-ditch gamble. He took Leia's face in his hands, ducked his head down. The kiss was searing, deep, anguished. Invested with all Han's emotional longing, his physical want, his trust and belief and awe and hope. Leia could feel it, all of it; clinging to Han's wrists, she returned the kiss with everything she was, everything she felt in return.

"I love you," Han vowed, against her lips. "Leia, _Leia._ Leia: I _love_ you."

Leia began to cry in earnest. She wanted to tell Han that she loved him, too; how truly she did, how she always would—for how long she had, and exactly why—but he would never leave, then, and then he—they—

 _They_ would be here soon. For the race. And in this state, she knew, Han would not be able to keep himself from attacking Theo Isolder.

She pulled back. "Han, you need—"

"Forget what I need, Leia," he said, low and fraught. "What about, _you_ need?"

Han ducked back in, pressing close, pressing her against the wall of the diner, kissing her wildly over and over until Leia, with a tortured little growl, pushed him off. Han gave her a lopsided smile of disbelief that vanished when she pushed him again, hard, and still harder.

"It's for the money, okay?" Leia said through her tears, flinging the words at him like rocks, mean and stinging. "You can understand that, right, mercenary man?"

"That's not true." Han shook his head, stepped back into her. "Never, Leia," he said. "Not you."

She shoved him again. Again, Han came stubbornly back, into her flying hands and hurled words, refusing her, denying her lie until Leia was sobbing, sagging, and then he caught her. Looking up at that beloved, beautifully asymmetrical face, drawn with love and strain, Leia gulped a rush of tears. Han's eyes were still that electric green, but gathering mist, neon seen through rain. He made an urgent, grieved sound in his throat and jerked her close, pressing her cheek to his heart, absorbing her in his abnormal heat, his clean-wood scent. Leia shook her head, helplessly, curling her fingers in his flannel shirt. "Tell me what you need. I'll do anything you ask, Leia, I swear. I promise."

"Anything?" Leia whispered into Han's damp shirtfront. Her face contorted with pain. _Go. Be safe. Fly away._

"Of course, Sweetheart," he said, his voice hoarse and cracking in his chest, under her ear. "Damn it, Leia, I love you. Of _course_."

Leia swallowed, marshalling her strength, but still the words were borne on a sob. "Han. I need you to _leave_."

Han's arms tensed around her, his body tautening; Leia could feel his long fingers twitch against her skull. He drew a sharp inhalation. Leia could feel that gasp, too, feel the way he pressed his cheek to her hair, held her tight, tighter. But she couldn't know how Han squeezed his eyes shut against the mortal pain, like a knife in a lung, stealing the breath to speak. Burrowing into Leia's hair, Han grit his teeth against the urge to weep, hopeless and deep. Behind his eyes he saw a tiny child, his face raw with bawling. _Needy. Need._

 _I need you to leave._

He said, softly, just to her, into her hair: "So long, Princess."

Releasing Leia with terminal gentleness, Han hunched into the chill and walked away.

XXXXXXXXXX

Han found Chewie sitting on Millie's front bumper. In a ravaged voice, Han ordered "Off. Now."

Han stopped squarely in front of his best friend. He was hard and stark and white as a bone, but also shadow-dark. Radiating heat, breathing rapidly. His eyes were glassy, though Han wasn't quite crying—Chewie had never seen the younger man cry, not even when their platoon-mates were killed, not even in that long night huddled together in their blizzard shelter, praying to live, and then praying to die. That terrible night, Chewie had dreamed of his mother and even _Chewie_ had cried, had woken up crying in rusty gasps. Han had sternly shaken his head and pulled him close, into his rough grasp. "You're gonna be fine, pal," he'd whispered, gruffly. "You're gonna be fine."

No, Han wasn't crying. But he was devastated, nonetheless. Chewie could feel his energy, a flagging signal, erratic and bleak. Morse code going out from the _Titanic_. Chewie knew how Han was: he sent out these distress calls, then wouldn't let anyone assist. So Chewie cracked his knuckles and gazed past his closest friend, up into the vivid blue of the autumn sky.

Han's voice was threadbare. "I ain't playing with you, pal. I gotta go."

Stroking his beard, Chewie said that yes, he had seen the paper, put it together with his small houseguest's wild, distraught behavior. The situation was terrible and bizarre, and clearly demanded close investigation.

"Close investi—" Han's eyes went so wide Chewie thought they might explode out of his head. He leaned into his friend's face, teeth bared in a bitter grin. "This ain't fuckin' _Dragnet,_ Chewie!"

Untroubled, Chewie added that he knew a couple of other things, too. He knew that escape seemed, to Han, crucial to the preservation of whatever fragile sense of self he had left. But Chewie also knew that if Han fled now, he would never forgive himself.

" _Stop."_ Han threatened, or maybe pleaded.

Running from Leia was bad enough—

Ah, the pointer finger. Chewie almost wanted to greet it. "Hell _d'_ y _ou_ know about it, you self-righteous—!" Han's lip trembled. Angrily, he closed his eyes, shook his head. "Guess it hurts her more to be around me in her new life—"

Chewie said, with the severe, healing precision of a surgeon, that Han was seizing upon this supposition as a chance to run from the challenge of love.

Han's eyes became glittering slits in his pale face.

People say ridiculous things when they're distraught, Chewie reminded Han; consider their long, hellish night stranded together in the Chosin blizzard. How many times had Chewie demanded that Han leave him, save himself? And had Han done it, abandoned Chewie to the killer elements?

"Maybe I'd like another crack at that," Han snarled.

Running from Leia was bad enough. And what about Luke, Chewie wondered. The Rogues? What about the race? There was no way Wedge and Janson could beat that middle stretch along the Kessel, let alone swing that tricky final exchange of the bottle with Luke and Dameron.

Han's lips twitched at the thought of Luke, earnestly trying to win the race by himself, surely falling to Theo Isolder. Brought down, face in the dirt in front of his whole town. And then he'd find out, too, find out about the Princ—no, not _the Princess,_ not anymore. Leia was Luke's cousin, now, and no one else to Han. Just like on the way to Starwood. Han would return Leia to a faceless girl, no importance to him beyond monetary gain. Like a maddened bear Han pawed at his skull, to dislodge the stinging barrage of feelings. He truly cared for the kid, but Luke would just have to deal with life, with _loss,_ like everyone else. "I'll leave him the Falcon," Han bargained. "I'll give it back."

Chewie mused that the diner renovations, plus winterizations, that Han had promised to help with would be awfully hard for the cook to pull off alone. With a laugh just this side of sanity, Han jerked his keys out of his jacket pocket. "Wouldja listen to this shit? I always pictured my conscience as a little less hairy, but fuck it: sure, pal, go ahead and lay it on. Why not."

Now Chewie got to his feet, dwarfing even his tall friend. He took Han by the shoulders, looked him deep in the eyes. Chewie knew where Han came from; he knew why Leia's rejection had so savaged him. But he had to stand and fight—for her, for himself, for his friends. Or Han would run all his life when things got too hard.

"It's time to grow up, little brother," Chewie rumbled as clearly as he could, his tone both loving and absolute.

"Grow—" Han stabbed a finger into his best friend's huge chest. Chewie didn't give. " _I_ need to _grow up?_ Who saved your ass at Chosin, then, Chewie? A goddamn newborn?"

Calmly Chewie conceded that Han was extremely brave, but bravery was but one element of realized manhood. Another was work. Even when it got tough. Even when it hurt. Work was work. There was nothing for it: it had to be done.

"I worked. For Leia. All goddamn. _Summer_ , Chewie." Han ground out, his eyes sharp-curved as scythe blades, face slick with sweat. "And I got her, too. Did you know that? Yeah, I did, buddy: you were right, she liked me." Han jerked a thumb towards his chest. "Leia Organa liked _me_ , she thought I was alright. And for a couple weeks, I was the happiest sorry bastard on earth." Helplessly Han looked up at the vivid sky, the scudding clouds, baring his working throat. "I love her. I _love_ her and I _told_ her and I kissed her, Chewie, over and over and she's still—she's _marrying_ him, Chewie! Leia is gonna marry that...that _motherfucker_ and I can't—I can't—"

A sound of despair, self-disgust wrenched from Han's chest; he tore himself loose from Chewie's grip. At the door of his truck, Han pushed back his hair, gave Chewie one last, resolute glance. "Look out for her, pal." Han said. "All right?"


	30. Chapter 30

It was Luke, of course, who appeared to Leia, materializing in her grief, before her outside the diner. When she saw him Leia hid behind her hands, tried to turn back against the stucco wall. She was so stripped down by emotion, by exhaustion; so bereft at the loss of Han that even the knowledge that he'd be protected from Erin Isolder didn't truly resonate; instead, Leia felt ashamed. She couldn't face even Luke, not in this state.

But Luke just sighed, collecting her in his sweetly dogged embrace. He held her close, and Leia broke down on his shoulder—Luke was her best friend, her cousin, almost her brother. His aura of gentle, insistent comfort both enveloped her and cut off her escape.

"I know, Leia," Luke said, softly. "I saw the newspaper. I've just come from your father's office. Leia, I've just spoken with Carlist."

XXXXXXXXXX

Inside the diner, Suzette was wrapping up the last of the tables. Annie rang up bills at the cash register, customers all leaving now to claim their spots on the billboard hill. Some, still buzzing over the Han and Leia show, which the lucky patrons had glimpsed from their booth windows, sneaked glances at the mute, staring Leia as she stepped inside under the sheltering arm of Luke Skywalker. There were whispers until caustic glares from Willa and Donna, also leaving, made everyone avert their eyes. Luke picked up whispered snippets: _kissed shoved begged cried_. And he understood: Han was gone.

Luke wasn't angry with the older man, his brave, wise-assed, resourceful honorary big brother. He felt compassion for Han. Luke knew how profoundly Han loved Leia, how hearing the news today must have hurt like getting doused in the face with a pan of scalding grease. And Luke knew, from the way Han had been raised, how he behaved, that Han's capacity for feeling was great but contained, collecting in vast, buried cells. Tap into one of those wells of love and pain and Han would run, he would have to run, he would have to run until he was drained.

When the last customer had left, Suzette locked the door, flipping the sign to _Closed._ The Rogues finished their kitchen cleanup and came out into the diner proper, untying their aprons. Chewie came in too, from the back entrance. There was half an hour left before the race.

The Rogues hoisted themselves into a row on the counter. "Where's Solo?" asked Wedge.

"Han is gone," Luke said.

Leia flinched.

"Whaddaya mean...gone? He was just here!"

"I mean Han is gone," Luke repeated, feeling Wedge and Janson's shock edge with anger.

"Gone—as in, outta the race?" Wedge demanded, just as Janson cut in, his voice ramped steeply up: "As in, me and Wedge gotta run our race _and_ run the Kessel?"

Luke nodded. "It looks that way."

Shara went to Leia, and looked, with her laser warmth, into the face of her childhood friend.

"Tell me, Lei," Shara commanded. Leia hesitated, but she was too crushed to keep up the act—seeing Han's broad, disappearing back, bowed against pain both his and hers, had cured her of that. And now that he knew the truth from Rieekan, Luke would not allow her to keep it secret. So Leia, bolstered by Luke's intense blue gaze, spoke. As she did, Shara sank onto a counter stool in horror; Kes shook his head. Wedge's face lowered like a horned owl's. Janson gulped; Suzette planted a hand on her hip and scowled. Annie looked like she'd just read the issue of _True Romance_ that was printed in hell.

Chewie howled _War._

Everyone stared. Chewie could be stern, but Korea had left him inclined to philosophy over violence. The huge, bearded man looked fiercely around the room _,_ as if to see who was with him.

"Hell yes, war," Wedge snapped, leaping to his feet. Janson stood beside him, and slapped his palm in solidarity. Shara said, her voice shaking, "Absolutely." Kes nodded, looping an arm about his wife's shoulders. Suzette shrugged almost impatiently; to her, battle was the obvious solution to myriad situations. Annie raised her hand, her eyes shining with pride, as though she'd earned her Girl Scout vengeance badge.

"But she could ruin you, Chewie," Leia whispered. "She could ruin all of you."

Chewie thundered something like, _I grant no one on earth that power_.

Leia turned to Shara. "She said she'd flunk you, Shar, that you'd have nowhere to live, when the bab—"

Shara swivelled sharply on the stool, side to side, as though she could find no other way to express her outrage. "Leia, no," Shara said. "That old bitch doesn't scare me, her or her son. They never did. You think she hasn't been messing with my family for years? When my parents moved to town, she tried to keep them out for not being white. You can't barter with people like that, you hear me? You can't give them anything."

Leia's lips trembled as her gaze moved to Luke. "It was you, at first, Luke," she said, softly. "That day on the beach, the...the bikini. She knew I'd do anything to protect you."

Luke stood straight, and with simple gravity, he tugged open his collar. Everyone gasped. Luke's neck was bound, clavicle to Adam's apple, in a collar of bruises. The fingermarks made a dark grid of rage; the thumbprints were blue-black ovals, like the backs of huge, grotesque beetles.

"Oh, _Luke,_ " Leia cried.

"What's safe, Leia?" Luke said. "I know you were trying to protect us, protect me, Han. All of us. And that's what makes you so good, so brave. But my father did this last night. In his office, in front of Erin Isolder, when I refused their job offer." Luke's eyes were wet, but his voice was steady. "When I said I wouldn't join him. When I told him, never."

Leia shook her head, slowly, her fingers pressed to her lips, staring at her cousin's assaulted flesh. When there was a shriek, for a wild moment Leia thought it came from her throat—but the sound was metal. The jock-loosened screws at the base of Shara's seat gave way and she fell, hard, at a tight, awkward angle, driving her tailbone against the chrome foot-rail, cracking her head against the counter. Everyone heard her teeth clack together.

Kes leapt to his wife's side. "We're going to the hospital," he declared.

Shara shook her head, dazed. "No, no, no, I'm fine—"

"Forget it, babe. Just in case," Kes insisted.

"The hospital is in Mantell!" Shara cried. "You won't make it back in time for the race!" She winced, bringing her hand to her back. Not wanting to get in the way, but wanting to comfort, Leia knelt at Shara's foot, her fingers clasping her friend's ankle. Kes looked wildly at the group.

"Ya gotta go," Wedge said. "Think of the kid."

"Go," Luke said. "We'll be all right."

 _Go._ Chewie ordered. _At once._

Wedge and Janson vehemently nodded. Kes gathered up his protesting wife and stood, with her in his arms. Leia stepped to the door with them.

"Oh no you don't," Shara gritted, pointing a very Han-like finger at Leia. "I am _fine_. You have other things to worry about."

Looking from Shara's pained, ferocious face to Luke's lurid neck—feeling again Han's last, assassinated breath—Leia felt fury rise in a boiling wave, carrying the raw truth to her heart. First she'd lost her home, her family. And now she'd mortgaged her sense of self, her dignity. The man she loved had just dragged himself away around his broken heart. _Everything,_ Leia hissed, through her teeth. She had given everything to protect them, these people she loved. All so they would be spared the tyrannical whims of power.

But they hadn't been spared. Everywhere was proof of ongoing danger. Shara would be all right, this time, but there would be other degradations, small and large, at the hands of the Isolders. Future cruelties awaited them all, laced in time like unexploded mines. Leia had made her desperate ransom, and still this nasty prank had hurt her pregnant friend; Luke had been viciously choked by his own father. And Han. _Han._ Leia hadn't kept him safe, by driving him off; he'd been maimed, and for what? Erin Isolder could still hunt Han down, just for the mean thrill. Did Leia really believe that marrying Theo Isolder would save Han from Erin's toxic boredom, or stop Anakin Skywalker from further punishing Luke, when he fully understood his son's betrayal?

And after she was married to Theo Isolder: what if Erin demanded children, and Leia refused to provide them? What were the rules for her own body? If she did have children with Theo—what of them? Would Leia support them, protect them, her own babies, or would she be so warped and afraid and beaten and lost that she would sign them away to Erin and believe them saved?

Leia had been wrong. A hot carbonation of rage and resolve flooded her veins. _Wrong._ Giving everything was not near enough. Giving in would never stop. There was a force in the world, cruel and sick. You couldn't appease it, negotiate with it. Evil would take and take and take and take. The only thing for it was to fight. The only thing for it was resistance.

 _War._

Today Leia would wage war, and then she would go to Florida and find Han. She would let it go, all of it, her life as she knew it, and go to him. Leia loved Alder Glen, but living there in fear, shackled to a man she despised, would siphon off its grace, its peace; with Han, Leia would share freedom to feel and love and freely move in every aspect of being, of human life.

Leia got to her feet.

"Luke. You'll throw the bottle." Leia's voice was clear, ringing. "I'll drive."

"Yes." Luke beamed to see Leia, restored, her color high, her eyes bright with the fervor of rebellion. His heart felt radiant with relief and reunion. Then he darkened. "But R2's got a standard transmiss—you can't—"

"Oh yes I can," Leia said.

XXXXXXXXXX

Han didn't go back for his stuff. Not his clothes, his tools, his personal effects. He couldn't go back to Alder Glen. Forget it all, tainted, painful. He'd abandon himself, too, if he could. If Han could modify himself as he did engines, he'd swap out his hands, tongue, lips. Fingertips, eyes. Cock. Everything she'd touched. His mind; his blind fool heart. All swapped out, defective stock, replaced with bright, shiny, insensitive new parts.

But as he approached the outskirts of town, Han's gut ached. Not with illness; this was the reverse of his good-luck strum, jagged and discordant. For distraction, Han turned the radio on. Every station seemed to taunt him. One played "Runaway." The next, "The Great Pretender." On "Heartbreak Hotel" Han snapped the radio off with a snarl. What the fuck was this? Were all the DJs spinning out of Indianapolis in league with Chewie to guilt him out? In cahoots with the world, to crush him?

He was feeling crushed enough. Coughing, sweating. His air whistled in his chest, and his hands shook on the wheel. With every mile, Han felt worse and worse, not just with illness but in his soul, his mind, his heart. At the fifteen-minute mark, right about where he'd picked up that cheerful blond hitchhiker, Han jerked the truck onto the shoulder of the road. He was sure he was going to be sick, but as soon as he'd ceased his motion away from New Hope, the suffering slightly abated.

With a groan, Han folded his arms on the steering wheel and buried his face in them, as though sheltering in Millie's embrace. He didn't mean to sleep, he just wanted rest; he wasn't sure what happened next, if it was dream, or thought. Han would never, for the rest of his life, admit that he'd had a vision. Just a hallucination, brought on by fatigue and fever and emotional shock.

But Han Solo saw the future.

 _Two_ possible futures. Two potential realities. Continuing along one path—the one Han was now on—he saw the Rogues. The Rogues had moved into middle age; when they were sneered at by the jocks, once-courageous Wedge just looked away. Janson had learned to bite his irrepressible tongue. Kes and Shara struggled. Chewie, his red pelt laced with white, had left New Hope, and was working in some urban greasy spoon, for someone else.

Luke was most cowed, humiliated, by the race's failure. His emerging confidence crushed, he'd opted to stay in New Hope, to protect his married cousin as best he could. He didn't paint anymore. Luke walked with a stoop, quiet at corporate cocktail parties as his big blond brother-in-law drunkenly held court. Maybe he'd even had to walk Leia down the—

What Leia had said last night, in the dressing room, played in Han's mind: I want to _before_. Now he understood. She'd wanted him then because she'd known what was looming. It hadn't been cheap, throwaway lust; that had merely been her desperate pose. Leia hadn't wanted to use him like those rich girls. She'd just wanted him to go there with her. Just once with someone she trusted, maybe loved, so she'd know what it was like, so she'd known what it could be, should be, what it was supposed to be in the arms of someone who cared for you—no, no, _loved_ you, _revered_ you.

But she wouldn't have that, with Han, not in this reality. Han made a guttural, suffering sound at the picture of Leia on her wedding night, pale, sick and resigned. It wouldn't have bothered him at all had she, before him, happily slept with someone else. Someone _she'd_ chosen. But the thought of Leia Organa, so brave and clever and witty and lovely; Leia, with all her rare gifts that Han tallied in his mind and heart goddamn _daily; Leia,_ her first time with Theo Isolder? Her only times. Han shuddered so hard, so powerfully, that he almost gagged. He saw a Leia with no job, no books; a thin, brittle Leia, staring into space. Han saw a Leia who was permitted to exist only as Theo Isolder's trophy. A prize.

And at the end of this path, Han saw himself. Not himself as he was now, not young and strong. This Han Solo was lined, hair iron-gray. He was still handsome, but in a battered way that spoke of what it had cost him, to live so long alone. He hadn't gone to Florida. He'd never hit the sky. He'd wound up back in Baltimore. In the taverns around the docks, some peripheral scavenger. There were women, he shared nothing substantial with them. His lopsided grin was thin and worn, part of an exhausting hustle that left him hollowed and fading. Running the same old games, relying on the same old gambles, wearing the tread of his luck finer and finer until—oh, Han knew that his own heart would end him, that this stubborn tenderness that had persisted in his chest from birth despite countless abuses, despite his every attempt to numb it, toughen it, excise it—his heart would be the spot to hit, on him, forever. Someday, sometime, some hunter would find Han's heart and lodge a mortal wound in it, a bullet or blade, right next to that foolish Cupid's dart he'd carry there, always, for Leia Organa. And that would be it, it would be over. Han Solo would topple, unmourned, into the void.

But the second path.

All along the second path was Leia. He could feel Luke's fulfilment, the cheer and vigor of the Rogues, Chewie's steady presence, but for Han, no one else was truly there. It was only Leia, Leia as she was today, and a Leia projected across time: on the lake, laughing, walking in the woods; with her books and pencils; bare and lovely and arching in his arms. Leia on the porch at Alder Glen, the door twined with roses. Leia, the editor of the newspaper. The first threads of silver in her hair.

And Han was there, too. He was there, working with simple tools, tools worn handle-smooth in his own capable grip. He was there, in the workshop, and Leia brought him water. He drank it and pressed Leia up against the wooden slats and kissed her, lifted her dress and he was inside her, blissful. The air smelled of earth and sun and green growth. They climbed with the roses, climbed with the breeze, breathing words into one another's mouths, little promises, little vows _._ They could have a life, together. They could make a life—

Han opened his eyes, feeling them focus, sharpen. He started the engine and wheeled the truck around, back the way he'd come. And now his head and heart operated as one; his luck-gut rejoiced in sweet vibration. Han shifted into fourth and hammered the gas. Millie opened up like a wild horse, joyous and untethered.


	31. Chapter 31

Han found Chewie waiting outside the closed, locked diner, leaning up against the wall, arms folded, casually chewing a toothpick. When Han pulled up his friend ambled over, unsurprised, and folded himself into the truck. Chewie's sureness, his faith in Han, welled Han's already sore throat. The huge man looked over at Han with a husky, fond chuckle.

"Laugh it up, fuzzball," Han growled—he'd meant to sound sarcastic, but it came out moved. Chewie put his hand on Han's shoulder and squeezed.

XXXXXXXXXX

Wedge beat the first jock, jumping off the starting line clean and hot, to the cheering of the crowd. As he rocketed down the highway, he still had the edge on his opponent's gray Buick, but as he approached the point where he would have met Solo's truck Wedge began to sweat. He dreaded that treacherous, serpentine stretch along the Kessel River, the brutal run that should have been Solo's. _Fucking Solo._ Wedge ground his teeth. He had believed better of Han; Solo had always seemed like such a _man_. No matter what, you don't run out on your friends. Well, goddamn it, Wedge would pick up the slack. He would find the courage to face those sharp turns, the deep ditches that seemed to exert their own gravitational pull. He would do his best—secretly, though, in his practical, realist's heart, Wedge Antilles believed that the race was lost.

But as he reached the next starting line, Wedge saw it: Han Solo's beat-up white truck, idling next to a jock Thunderbird. Wedge gave a sound that managed to combine shock, relief, and vindicated brotherhood.

"Shit," cried Janson. "Is that—"

The cheerleader whose job it was to start the next heat saw the approaching cars, Wedge's red Chevy leading the gray Buick. She waved her scarf, signalling Millie and the T-bird to launch. Solo seemed to get a good jump, but then he flagged, and the T-bird flew out ahead of him. " _Shit!"_ Janson howled. "They came from behind!"

"Get up in the window," Wedge snapped, as the gray Buick crowded them, looking to pass. Wedge glanced at Millie, just cruising along ahead as though out for a relaxing drive. _What are you up to, Solo?_

Cradling the paint-filled bottle, Janson screamed, "I need room to maneuver! There's not enough room!"

"Stay on target." Now Wedge understood. He took his foot fractionally off the gas, letting the gray Buick fly past first him, and then past the still-sedate Millie, chasing its T-bird teammate.

"What the hell are you _doing_ , Antilles?" Janson hollered down from his perch in the open window. "You let them _pass_ us! Now it's all fuc—"

" _Stay_ on _target!_ " Wedge bellowed.

He knew Solo didn't lose the jump. He'd let the T-bird go, and then the gray Buick, deliberately buying Wedge and Janson a pocket of space in which to make the bottle drop. Han hadn't lost the jump; he'd forfeited it: Solo had enough faith in his speed, in his skill on the Kessel Run, to handicap himself, to toss those extra moments to his opponent like a careless, contemptuous coin. _Cocky bastard._ But he timed it just right, Wedge thought, as he watched Millie finally start to move, picking up speed. Wedge matched the pace until the two vehicles pulled parallel with one another. Chewie unfurled from the passenger's window. Up in his own window, Janson cocked his arm and threw the bottle with such heart that Wedge heard him let out a grunt. It was a perfect throw, and Chewie caught it clean. Janson gave a yell, pumping his fist, as Chewie gave him a solemn thumbs-up before sliding back into the truck's cab. Wedge just had time to glance over at the driver's seat. Later, Wedge Antilles swore that Solo tossed him a wink, a sly, knowing grin, as if to say _You thought I was gone?_ And then Millie truly took off with emphatic power. _That's_ _ **gone,**_ _baby. Like a fuckin' home run._

Drenched in sweat, Wedge let out a shaky breath as he pulled over. Janson dropped back into his seat, vibrating with adrenaline. The childhood friends looked at one another.

Janson gasped, "I am gonna kill..."

Wedge finished, "...that cocky _bastard._ "

Neither man knew, as they shared a wild, shaky laugh, whether they were awed or murderous.

XXXXXXXXXX

Han flew past the gray Buick. Wedge's opponents were pulled over, the jock drivers relaxing with a few spectator girls. With a rapid scan Han took in the lack of broken glass or splashed red paint; the jocks had also got their first bottle drop off alright. The blue Thunderbird wasn't in sight, but that was fine, Han thought, with a grim smirk. Laying hot rubber down Main Street wouldn't prepare those clowns for the twining charge along the Kessel River. Han looped his fingers on the wheel, loosened his neck. Relaxed his grip on the gearshift just enough that he'd feel Millie's truth, and not his own tautness.

Chewie snapped the radio on, and found the driving rhythm of "Well All Right." Buddy Holly had been playing when he met Luke, Han remembered. The day he'd met Leia; his birthday, the best he'd ever had. Today, he'd take all available good omens. Han nodded, encouraging Chewie to turn Buddy louder, never mind the thumping in his head. Han was sick, now, badly sick. He hadn't slept; he'd been razed, today, to the earth. But Han felt better, now, than he had in days. He knew that somewhere, at the end of this, was Leia. He would find Leia. And that was worth everything.

And so Han went into it, hurled himself headlong into the Kessel Run. He had no resources left to fuel cynicism or caution; it was all gone in speed, in heat, into his last chance. _Well all right,_ Chewie warbled _._ It was awful, Chewie's voice, but still Han found himself grinning. It was an old habit Chewie fell back on when he was keyed up, whether happy or stressed. He'd sung all through Chosin Reservoir, and Han had always chuckled, even sang softly back to Chewie that night they'd nearly died together, frozen in their makeshift shelter. Now, eyes scanning, reflexes firing, Han muttered along: _well all right, all right._ His good-luck chord striking again and again, affirmative and clean and propulsive as the song.

Han cut a swift, infallible track into the swerving blacktop. Buddy Holly set him a beat to follow: heel, toe, stick, wheel. He took risks that would have seemed extreme, once, but now served as necessary gestures of conviction. Han knew he was making unheard-of time; he seized the corners; cut the rim of a curving ditch so fine and thin that Chewie made annoyed eyes at him. Han smiled back. Do the Kessel Run at this speed just a fraction wrong and Han could flip the truck, kill them both, and still Chewie looked about as troubled as a man waiting for a late bus. _I love you, pal,_ Han thought, with sudden ferocity. Almost ecstatic in the grip of power, of fever, of exalted purpose, Han Solo yielded, for the first time in his life, to the whim of the universe.

They were hurtling up to the final rise, just before Luke would take on Isolder, when Han saw it: burnt tiretracks where the blue T-bird had lost control. Broken glass and red paint, too. The car was by the side of the road, the driver and passenger yelling at one another, smoke belching from under the hood. They'd blown a gear, or blown a line.

Han guffawed. With obnoxious verve, he pounded the heel of his hand down on the horn as they flew past. Flexing his huge fingers on their own bottle, Chewie reminded Han not to get cocky.

Swooping over the rise, Han's satisfaction stalled when he saw R2 already in motion, closely pursued by Theo Isolder's black Corvette. "What the fuck?" Han snapped. The cars shouldn't have begun their relay until the Kessel runners were in sight. The cheerleader was standing there dumbfounded, holding her limp scarf. Spectators were yelling, protesting, cheering. The two cars weren't at full speed yet; they'd only just started, and now Han poured it on, taking Millie to her very limits. He and Chewie drew closer, slicing the final curve. Isolder took the bend wide and sloppy, losing speed, R2 pulling farther ahead.

They were approaching the treed-in gauntlet to the billboard, the final stretch. There was hardly room for two vehicles in that chute, let alone three. There was no way Chewie could get the bottle to Kes if Isolder made it into the bottleneck first. No one would win—and everything would go back to the way it was. But Han wouldn't have it. Theo Isolder could have money, local status, hot car, athletic talent—but he couldn't rip out Luke's heart. Han wouldn't allow it. That prick couldn't have this, he couldn't take all their hard work. And he sure as hell wouldn't have Leia, not in any sense.

Han gave it the very best—the very last— he had, pulling out to pass the Corvette. He could feel Millie screaming out her furious guts. He muttered a gritty prayer: "Hold together. Hear me, baby? Hold together." Startled by Han's sudden, aggressive advance, Theo panicked, stomping his brakes. Han inched ahead of the Corvette just enough to cut Isolder close and sharp, seizing the Corvette's place at the gauntlet's mouth. He only just heard, through the open windows, Isolder's squawk of disbelief: "What!" and then the black Corvette swung wide, wild, fishtailing all over the road, plunging into the ditch. The crowd reacted with cheers, shock. Han howled in triumph. Chewie threw back his head and roared. But the trial wasn't over yet. The road had narrowed; R2 was just ahead. Han called, "You're all clear, kid!" Climbing up into the window, Chewie resumed singing "Well All Right." _Lifetime's love will be all right._

When he saw R2's driver Han understood, in a flash, that love was a liberating force.

Leia turned her head and time stretched; their eyes met over rushing air and radio waves. Finally Han saw her again, the Leia he knew, _his_ Leia, revelling in her native bravery and freedom. Her hair had unravelled and it whipped around her face, her shoulders, in auburn streamers. She smiled at him, sweet and slow. Oh, Leia loved him. Han knew that, now, he _knew_ that—fear and lies could not survive at this speed, such intense heat. It was all burning off him, them, falling loose, every warped piece of armor, every mask; each sick belief or misguided pact. This was the path of love, rigorous and infinite, the route into the fiery heart. Han opened the space to her, as he drifted to the side, slicing into the angled layers of air and light, knowing she'd follow. And she did, Leia lined R2 up just right, as though she'd been the one practicing the move with him, not Luke. " _Awhoooooohooooo hooooo!_ " Han screamed, in pure, raw joy, ripping his sore throat ragged. He hammered Millie's wheel. "Oh, _yeah_! Oh, _Sweetheart_! That's my _girl!_ "

Luke rose in the passenger seat, his hair lit deep gold. Crouched, maybe flexed, the kid looked a decade older, focused and compact, like an athlete, Han thought, or an acrobat. Luke opened his hands; Chewie threw a perfect, elegant arc. The kid plucked the bottle from the air and smiled, glowed as though he was the human conduit of all the world's light. Han blinked back the sudden sting in his eyes. Chewie slipped back into the cab, his teeth gleaming from the red of his beard. Han thought he heard him growl, _Who's the quarterback now?_

The billboard loomed, the Cairn Estates family looking down on their flying approach like stupid, cruel gods. Defiantly Leia sped up, then, shifting gears slick and clean. "Get it, Princess," Han muttered, low and intent. His hair wind-crazy, his eyes hot, he looked, to Chewie, like a man electrified in epiphany.

Luke pivoted smooth and fierce to face his target, switching his grip on the bottle to its neck, testing its weight. And this couldn't be true but still Han would always believe it, he knew what he saw: at the last second Luke closed his eyes. He closed his eyes and then he threw the bottle, launched his missile with a faith so clean and deep it was almost wrathful.

The bottle shattered on the billboard, right on target; blue paint splattered the faces of the false family. The impact was violent and beautiful, concentric splinters of glass trapping sunlight as fiery sparks, ring after ring. The explosion seemed to hang in the air, a painting, a flower—a lethal chrysanthemum, red and gold, a bloom of bright blue at its center.

"Great shot, kid!" Han bellowed, as he and Chewie slapped at each other in delirious joy. "That was one in a million!"

The crowd on the hill erupted. Han pulled over, shaking, and gave an exhalation that was near-orgasmic. He was sheened in sweat; he shook out his hair, desperate to incorporate air where he could. God, he was burning...burning. He slipped out of the cab, into the cheers, moving ahead, to where Leia and Luke had stopped and were embracing. Han broke into a run into their opened arms, the three of them encircled again by Chewie. Dimly, he recognized the distinctive sound of Wedge's engine roaring down the road towards them. Luke laughed, his eyes bright with ecstatic tears, holy and wild. And Leia, Leia lit from within and proud, suddenly Leia was the only one close, kissing all of Han's face she could reach, and he was kissing her back, and she was saying that she loved him, that she loved him too.

"Fuckin' hell," Wedge Antilles laughed to Wes Janson, gesturing at the kissing, fiercely muttering pair. "I've never been so happy to lose a bet."

Han wanted to kiss Leia longer, he wanted to tell her he'd never love anyone else. He wanted to tell her he loved her again, now that his hand had not been forced. But there was too much feeling in Han's chest, just now, to talk; a breezy _whoosh,_ the last of his knot unravelling, leaving his thumping heart clean and open as the sky. His stamina vanished at all at once. Han rested his hot forehead on Leia's own. "I know," was all Han managed, before he slumped.


	32. Chapter 32

The medical practice used to belong to Dr. Dodonna, but he had retired when Leia was in her teens. His successor was Dr. Kalonia. Dr. Dodonna was competent, but he was stuffy and older, with an older man's social values; Leia was relieved as she became a young woman herself that there were certain things she need never discuss with an elderly man. Now in her late thirties, Dr. Kalonia—Martha, as she'd long ago asked Leia to call her—was kind, sharp, and thoughtful. She had a sense of humor, and had always supported Leia's ambitions. She never said so, but she thought Breha was over-protective, and also regressive. Martha had bucked tremendous social odds herself in becoming a doctor, and had little patience for the notion of correct female roles.

Now, in the little medical office above Knapp's Drugs, Chewie explained that Han had been weakened by hypothermia in Korea. Chewie had been wounded in the leg, and another blizzard had come on. Han, instead of abandoning Chewie and making it back to the main camp, had instead raided the survival equipment from an abandoned Jeep, stalled out in the cold. He'd somehow set the collapsible shelter up and dragged Chewie in, dressed his wound as best he could. He'd given Chewie painkillers and the lion's share of the blanket and brandy and small heater. Han himself had paced, head bowed against the low ceiling of the tent, trying to stay warm himself. He did jumping jacks, pushups, melted snow on the heater to make rationed coffee and powdered soup and pour it into Chewie. They were rescued the next morning. Chewie was all right, but by that point Han was ailing. He'd spent time in the base hospital, but not enough; the doctor said the cold, or exhaustion, could affect Han negatively all his life.

Dr. Kalonia took this information in as she looked the tall, young man over, sliding her stethoscope onto his chest, the cold metal making him flinch. He was almost delirious; she pulled the thermometer out of his mouth. It was high but, she thought, from the way he was bathed in sweat, the fever had broken and was declining. "He's sick," Martha Kalonia said, crisply. "He let it go too far. No denying that, but he'll be all right. It's not pneumonia, and he's young, very strong—" she listened again— "really, Mr. Solo, you've got gigantic lungs, like a racehorse!" Leia gave a watery smile. Dr. Kalonia smiled reassuringly back. "Truly, he's all right. Rest, fluids, hot baths. He'll be weak for a day or so, but he'll be fine."

She gave Han a shot in the shoulder, sedative, vitamin C, vitamin B12. As Chewie and Luke, his arms slung around their necks, guided Han out to his adored truck, Doctor Kalonia asked Leia to please stay back.

"I hear congratulations are in order," she said neutrally. Leia assumed she meant Theo Isolder. "Actually," Leia began. "I."

"On your new job," Dr. Kalonia said. "I know Mon well. I was so pleased to hear you'll be working for her. It's a wonderful fit for you." The doctor settled onto the side of her desk. "And also, on your upcoming nuptials? I read something in the paper. Is there anything you'd like to ask me, about—"

Leia bit her tongue, a tell noticed by the keen-eyed doctor. Martha did not like that Isolder boy, and absolutely loathed his grasping mother, who had vehemently opposed Dr. Kalonia's opening of a free, once-a-week clinic focused solely on female health. Martha steadfastly ignored Erin Isolder, but the thought of the bright, ambitious Organa girl—who'd babysat Martha's own son, and had spoken of her dream to become a reporter—marrying into _that_ woman's family seemed sinisterly abrupt. Especially when, Martha noticed, Leia seemed so tenderly concerned with the welfare of another young man, the strapping one with the distinctive cicatrix.

Martha raised an eyebrow at the discomfort obvious in her favorite patient. "Leia," Martha said. "Please. Sex is a natural thing, nothing to be ashamed of or coy about, and I'm sure you understand by now the mechanics. But you have a career, and plans, and this is the modern world; women are no longer regulated to only childbearing. While motherhood is a fine choice—you know I adore my Stephen—and one I am certainly able to advise you on if you wish to pursue it immediately, I am also available to discuss contraception." _Please want contraception_ , Martha silently pleaded, horrified by the thought of Leia as unwilling mother to the offspring of Theodore Isolder.

Leia felt hot blood rush to her face. But she nodded.

"All right. There's a new pill available. It's been tested for safety and cleared, and now is issued to doctors to offer their female patients for treatment of—" Dr. Kalonia cleared her throat with delicate, droll emphasis— "menstrual disorders." She gave Leia several sample packs, and smiled. "One a day. It does have other, preventative side effects." _There,_ Kalonia thought. Now, even if Leia had been railroaded into some terrible situation, it wouldn't become an unbreakable trap. Martha Kalonia had seen far too much of _that._

XXXXXXXXXX

Han was lying across the backseat of R2, his head nestled in a lap. His eyes were so heavy that he couldn't focus. He reached up to touch the blurry face. "Whozat?"

Leia stroked his hair, kissed his eyelids, rested her cheek on his forehead. "Someone who loves you," she said. Han clutched her, close and convulsively, about the hips. He turned his face into her belly. "Leia," he moaned—with relief and gratitude, but also as though some wild belief had been rewarded. Deeply moved by her self-proclaimed cynic's helpless show of faith, Leia pulled him close, closer. No matter the threat, no matter what anyone did, she would, Leia swore ferociously to herself, never give Han cause to doubt her love again. He slackened, sank unconscious in her arms. When they got to Alder Glen, Chewie following in Millie, she asked Chewie and Luke not to leave Han in the Falcon, not alone; she wanted Han to waken with her. Safe.

XXXXXXXXXX

Han stretched in the huge, clawfoot tub, dozing gently, on and off. God, it felt so good to sluice all the illness and sadness off in this scalding bath; his chest had loosened, his headache dissolved. For a long while he just drifted, mildly wondering at the time; it was black outside the frosted bathroom window. It felt late at night, but Han didn't know for sure, and he didn't much care. Leia was close. He'd woken in her arms, in her bed, and left her sleeping to soak himself. Man, this tub, what a gem. Most baths forced Han to fold almost in half, but this old cast-iron beast let him extend his legs to luxurious length. All this time, tiny Leia had been bathing in this? His eyes closed, Han smiled to himself. He was surprised she didn't have to tread water.

Voices lanced Han's mellow, steamy fog. Through the open bathroom door he heard the clattering of pots in the kitchen, a distinctive sound that could only be Chewie—and through the ajar door, Han smelled food. His stomach rumbled. That was a good sign. He began to think about leaving the wonderful hot water, and then he heard the kid, his voice tight with an anger Han had never heard from kindly, tolerant Luke Skywalker.

"We must be missing something, Carlist. Erin Isolder wins either way?" Luke said. "She gets Leia, or she gets Leia's home?"

"I've gone over and over the damned thing, Luke," sighed a male voice Han didn't recognize, cracked with exhaustion and resolve. "It's airtight. To inherit, Leia must marry Theodore Isolder."

Han dragged his hands over his face and up through his wet hair. When he'd woken up and come downstairs, Luke had been sitting in a kitchen chair at the small Formica table that mostly served as Leia's desk, sketching, his elbow looking cramped. Even as tidy as Leia was, there was hardly room for her cup of pens and pencils and stacks of books and papers. Luke had put his drawing away to give Han a hug and a rough outline of Leia's dilemma, but Han had still felt cloudy then, and full meaning hadn't hit him. He'd mostly sat there stunned, babbling things like "The hell? You can't just fuckin' _bequeath_ a person." And then the news, delivered sensitively from Luke, that Leia would have married Theo Isolder in large part to protect Han had made Han almost literally sick. He had choked on horror, unable to speak. He still didn't want to, couldn't truly think about it.

In response he'd told Luke the whole story about Jeb Hutt, not wanting Luke to think that there was something worse, in his past—but mostly because Han felt a compulsion to dilute the coercive power of an ugly secret with the unvarnished truth. Luke had nodded, and asked if he could tell Leia if she got up while Han was still in the bath. Han had agreed wholeheartedly; he felt done with secrets, done forever. And Leia was, of course, the girl who wanted to know everything. The sooner she was operating with all the facts, Han knew, the stronger she'd be strategically.

Now more impact of what had happened to her _did_ hit him, and with interest. _Jesus Christ_ , Han thought—stealing Leia's money was bad enough, but Han was so familiar with treacherous greed, with thieves, that this motive was banal to him. To take Leia's _home_ was worse, but even Alder Glen, in the end, was simply an asset to a woman like Isolder, whatever its emotional import to Leia. No, what made Han's fingers twitch, now, along the cool sides of the tub in rage was that that demonic bitch had used Leia's vast capacity for love and bravery against her. She'd almost ripped Leia from everyone she loved, from everyone who loved her.

Han thought, with dark longing, of his army rifle, of his roofing hammer.

Through the door, Leia piped up. "Can't we challenge it?"

"We can—we will—but Erin has the resources to drag this out in the courts for years. Years, Lelila, I mean it— _years_ with no home, no resources of your own—"

"I'll have my job," Leia said, fiercely.

 _Atta girl,_ Han thought at the return of Leia's defiant pride.

"You'd have a home, too, with me and Peg, if you like, or with Ben Kenobi I'm sure, if it came to that," the other man said. "But people don't know how exhausting litigation is. It can go on long after you're willing to walk away from everything."

"I want to fight," Leia stated. "I have to."

"Yes," Luke said. "Even if only on principle. I'll stay, Leia, until this is over. I don't care how long it takes, I...we can get a place—"

"Luke. No," Leia said, with adamant warmth. " _You_ are going to school. You need to get away from your father. No more self-sacrifice, from any of us. I'll get by, and anyhow—" Han could almost hear her blush—"if I need to temporarily leave the lake, I was thinking of living in the Falcon. You know. With Han. We could hook it up to Millie, park somewhere."

Han beamed so widely he was sure he lit the dim tiled room. He felt warmed, all at once, all the way through, by Leia's matter-of-fact inclusion of him in her future, in her solution. He heard the emotion in Luke's pause, and then he said, "You know? That could be really great. And we'll talk, when I'm gone—wait, you need a phone, especially now that all this is going on."

"You don't have a phone out here?" The other man asked, sharply. "Luke's right, you need that. I'll cosign for one in my name, at once."

Chewie hooted, announcing food. His belly growling in earnest, still smiling his happiness despite the looming legal mess, Han hauled himself from the water.

XXXXXXXXXX

Leaning in the doorway, towel wrapped at his waist, his thick hair swept back, damp skin restored to its natural gold, Han Solo was the most beautiful person that Leia had ever seen. The planes of his face and lean body were so distinct, Leia had the odd conviction that he'd always been ever so slightly blurred, before. Now Han was in sharp relief, as though some obscuring film had been lost; something that had been dulling him—or her vision—had been shed, or immolated. He looked straight at her, his eyes warm, ardent amber. For a long moment the two simply stared, marvelling at one another, at their return to each other, until finally Carlist Rieekan rose from the table, extending his hand. Han seemed to remember he was half-naked, then, and gruffly introduced himself before making for the door, grimacing at the thought of going out into the chilly fall night wet, and in just a towel, to get clean clothes from the Falcon.

Clearing her throat, Leia gestured as subtly as she could up to the sleeping loft. Han's face looked surprised then pleased as he turned back towards the stairs. Carlist looked at Leia with a curious eyebrow. She studiously avoided his eye, clearing her papers and pens and books from the table so Chewie could lay out his spread of chicken soup, salad and crusty, buttered bread. Leia adored and respected Carlist, but she no longer cared what anyone thought about her private arrangements. So she and Han would be, in the language commonly used in the gossip column, "living in sin." But what did that matter, morally, when legal marriage could be extorted?

When Han returned everyone ate, enjoying the animal pleasure of returned appetite after great stress. Chewie, who had already eaten, picked up the will, reading carefully to himself as everyone talked. It was almost midnight, and the stakes were high, but still the mood was stubbornly buoyant, even joyous as Luke and Han and Leia rehashed the race.

"I knew you'd come back," Luke exulted to Han.

"You didn't think I was gonna let you take all the credit," Han said, reaching across the table to playfully mash Luke upside the head. "Say. Why'd you guys launch early, on that last run?"

Luke and Leia exchanged a look. "Well..." Leia began, methodically tearing her piece of bread. Luke shrugged, his mouth full of food, and swallowed.

"Theo threw a tantrum," Luke said, a small smile pulling at his lips. Han raised his eyebrows over his glass of milk. "When he saw Leia with me, driving R2. Threw a fit, screaming at her. Just abuse. Telling her she had to ride with him, or she'd be sorry..."

Han put down his glass, feeling his face contort in a scowl. Rieekan shook his head in horrified wonder.

"...and then Leia told him to go fuck himself," Luke finished.

Chewing, Leia blushed, but gave a careless, very Han-like shrug.

Han's head fell back with the force of his delighted belly laughter. What it was about Leia swearing at fools that so charmed him, he'd never fully know. He meshed his fingers with hers, under the table, on her thigh. Leia glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, proud, shy, and squeezed his hand.

Luke's expression darkened. "Then Theo went to get out of his car—so mad, _so_ mad, worse than he was the night be beat me up—like he was going to drag Leia out. So Leia took off, on her own, though I was about to tell her to do it—forget the rules. And he chased us. He wasn't even racing us anymore. It was...pursuit. Dangerous."

Han's laughter died. "He is going to get his," he said, grim and even. "One of these days."

"Well, it's a good thing _someone_ taught Leia some crazy defensive driving." Luke gave a small smile. "And no one showed up to pull him out of the ditch. Wedge said the Corvette is still there, the T-bird, too. You know Wedge's brother works at the tow shop? Every time one of the jocks phones, Phil says they're booked and he hangs up."

Leia gave her own grin that, Han thought, was downright bloodthirsty. "Shara said Theo broke a toe kicking the wheel of his car. One of the nurses at the hospital told her." While Han slept, Leia had walked up to Ben's to use his dusty telephone, which only she ever used, but he kept on, for whatever reason. She'd called Shara's mother's house; Shara was home, fine and resting, bubbling over with vengeful joy.

When the snickers had ebbed, Rieekan added, with a quiet smile, he'd heard from his young receptionist that Han had set some kind of record. Han scoffed, but his face suffused with badly-suppressed, boastful excitement. "Ahhh, I was inspired," Han said, passing his eyes over Leia's face. With a happy sigh, he crammed a piece of bread into his mouth. "Damn, Chewie. Has food ever been this good?"

Chewie didn't answer. There was something in his silence that made Han get up, walking across the floor to where Chewie leaned against the kitchen counter, reading slowly through the contract with his index finger. Han stood at Chewie's side, looking over the papers, conferring with Chewie in what was almost their private language. Suddenly Han's face sharpened; he took up the papers and read, rapidly. He looked up at Rieekan. "Hey, I'm no lawyer, but...Chewie thinks he mighta found somethin', here."

Wiping his fingers on a clean, checkered dishcloth, Rieekan crossed to the two men and reviewed the document, speaking to himself: Yes, here, here, here were proposal of marriage, requirement of marriage, a line to sign for acceptance of marriage, a space for the attachment of a marriage certificate, upon which receipt all assets would be released to Leia Organa. Rieekan looked up, with respectful interrogation, into the huge man's face. "No, marriage is an absolute requirement for inheritance. I think I must be missing your point, Chewie."

Maybe it was because of Chewie's slower, methodical reading style, but he had not read the documents like everyone else had, particularly Leia and Rieekan—their sophisticated eyes rushing rapidly ahead, filling in any critical gaps with their own unconscious, practised comprehension. But Chewie had read as Leia had taught him; with full, unhurried attention, word by word, line by line, each word affixing conceptually to the next. He understood very little of the advanced legalese, but the words Chewie had been looking for were simple enough.

Chewie gestured at the paper, speaking as carefully as he could. Rieekan looked again, and when he had, he said, "By God." Then he slapped the counter and laughed, really laughed for the first time since all this had happened. " _Horm,_ " Rieekan chuckled. "Horm, you lazy, incompetent fool. I told you your sloppiness would be the ruin of you."

Everyone got up then, crowding into the narrow galley kitchen, wedged together between the countertops and the island Han had built. Rieekan explained that Chewie was right. Nowhere in the will's last paragraph, where the terms for Leia Organa's inheritance were laid out, did he see the actual printed words _Theodore Isolder_.

Han elbowed Chewie with rough, gleeful approval. "Pretty clutch, pal." Uncomfortable, Chewie began collecting dirty dishes, muttering something about _lessons come full circle to reward the generous teacher_ , or maybe he was just asking if anyone wanted more supper.

Hesitantly, Leia smiled. "You mean—does this void—"

"It certainly voids the specific demand," Rieekan said, his eyes twinkling.

"Leia doesn't have to marry?" Luke asked, eagerly.

Rieekan shook his head. "No, I'm afraid marriage is ironclad. But, because Breha's blessed idiot lawyer failed to sufficiently specify the prospective groom, what she _doesn't_ have to do is marry some evil brat, _or_ take on a legal war of attrition to get what's hers."

Han spoke to Rieekan, but his eyes stayed on Leia. "You're saying..."

"What I'm saying, Lelila," Rieekan said, with a gentle, mirthful touch to Leia's shoulder, "Is: while your mother did, for I'm sure loving reasons, require you to marry in order to inherit, you are free to select the lucky fellow yourself."

Han and Leia's eyes met as though along a charged, wild wire. Leia felt her heart race as Han seemed to gauge her, then took a breath, a man about to leap into space. His face broke into his rare, broad, open smile, the one just for her, his bright offering.

"So marry me, Princess," Han said.


	33. Chapter 33

At dawn, Rieekan drove to Mantell to put in for a rushed marriage licence. Everything had to be fast; no word could get back to Erin Isolder, who, as far as she knew, was still planning a wedding, though Leia didn't care, anymore, who knew anything, and neither did Han. Rieekan also pledged to get Leia's phone turned on while he was in the larger town, so he could keep everyone abreast of any developments.

For Han and Leia, the next days broke into surreal fragments. They were giddy and exhausted, Han with the last of his nasty cough, Leia coming out of emotional shock. At night they curled together in the big iron bed, wound warm and close, but with a delicate hesitance that precluded their earlier explorations of one another. First, Luke was nearby, staying in the Falcon to avoid his father. But mostly it was as though, since everything that had happened, Han and Leia had started somehow over—not back to distance, not at all that, but pausing as though with stupefied respect before what they were now undertaking together. They kissed one another, held one another, but Han in particular was back to the firm restraint he'd shown at the outset of their relationship. Touching Leia with hunger seemed weighted, now, in a way that Han wasn't sure they were prepared to investigate, particularly since she'd never brought up their last, awful encounter in Donna's dressing room. He didn't want Leia to think he didn't want her, but Han also didn't want to act like he _expected_ sex, now that they were, for all intents and purposes, engaged. So it was back to the throbbing ache.

He wanted to marry Leia with a fervency that shocked him. It was nothing to do with her land, her money. And it wasn't all to do with seeing Leia legally receive what was hers, either. Sure, Han wanted to make her happy, but setting her up in life wasn't his motivation. No, there were two real reasons to marry Leia, for Han: first, he genuinely loved her, and didn't want to ever again be without her. He returned, sometimes, in those moments just before sleep, to his sweet, galvanizing vision of their potential future together. And the other reason was, Han wanted to shield her. If Leia married him, he knew, she'd be safe: he would protect her all his life from any threats conjured by the Isolders, but also he knew that he didn't have any interest in changing Leia, making her over into some magazine housewife. All Han wanted was to go along as they were—well, maybe with some eventual, uh, developments—as they had been, together, forever.

But Han wasn't sure Leia wanted to marry _him_. Oh, he knew she loved him—she'd said, and anyway he felt it, but a few months' courtship, and so dramatically inflected, was hardly the launching pad Han wanted for their lives together. And Leia had once said, when outside pressure was not a factor, that she didn't want to marry _anyone_. But when his mind returned nervously to this statement, as it often did, Han reminded herself that he'd felt the same, then, about marriage. And he also pictured how Leia had _looked_ when he'd asked her to marry him: how her dark eyes had seemed to gleam in her flushed face, how her smile had broken open like morning.

Still, on the surface, both were treating their upcoming marriage as a lark, an impish thwarting of a villainous plan. They didn't speak of marriage in terms of _them_ —as individuals, as a couple. Finally, the day before they were due at the courthouse in Mantell, Leia suggested that they set down some ground rules for their—she paused— _arrangement_. "You know. So we don't have any more...miscommunications."

Han drank his coffee, stretched his legs out under the knitted blanket they were sharing in the hammock. "Hrrrrmmm. Is this where you say I gotta walk a few paces behind you, like whatsisname with that other little queen?"

Leia laughed. "Han. I'm serious."

"I am too, that's emascu—"

"I want to keep working." Leia blurted.

Han stared at her, stung. "You think I want you to quit?"

Leia shook her head. "Of course not, I just want to put it all clearly out there, after everything."

She looked imploringly at him, and after a moment he nodded, remembering every secret that had impeded them. And really, in the end, they'd been lying to themselves: Chewie had been right, Leia had vehemently approved of what Han had done to Jeb Hutt, and Han was not at all concerned by any attempts Erin Isolder could make against him.

"Yeah. Of course you'll work. I didn't get you them pretty clothes just to wear around the house." Grinning, Han was about to propose a _no_ -clothing policy as his contribution to their discussion, then closed his mouth. This wasn't flirtation, anymore. This was real.

Tomorrow would be their wedding night.

"I want to divide the money and property evenly," Leia went on, mercifully distracting him from this loaded thought.

Han said, "Uh, it's my turn?"

Primly, Leia rearranged herself in the hammock. "Well, now it's out there, for the record."

"Well, _for the record,_ I want us to take consecutive turns." He wagged his finger. "No sneakin' in extras. Anyway, you can forget it, Princess. I already asked Rieekan to write me a thing, this quitclaim thing on your stuff, and I signed it."

Leia scowled. "Han! You can't just _do_ things like—"

Han shrugged. "Too late. I just wanted you to know, for sure, that not everyone's out to steal from you."

Leia sighed, touched his stubborn jaw. "I know that. And thank you. But no more unknown legal documents, ever, Han, even when they're in my favor." She frowned. "I've had my fill of those forever."

"Deal. And don't think you're buyin' everything, either, just because you got more cash. We split anything we buy down the middle."

She didn't argue with this, knowing how Han felt about freeloading. "The first thing we need to buy is a sofa," Leia said. "We only have the armchair. And we can't just keep sitting on that pile of blankets and pillows."

Han _liked_ sitting with Leia amid the blankets and pillows in the evenings, leafing through _Hot Rod_ magazine as she read her fancy books, listening to the radio. But he figured they could do that on a couch just as well. "Yeah, okay. And I want a washer and dryer."

Leia blinked.

"For real, Sweetheart. I ain't into doin' laundry by hand, or watchin' you do it, not any of that. You hate surprise legal documents? Well, I hate scrubbin' dirty clothes."

"We could just keep using the laundromat?"

"No." Han's tone was flat. "It's been all right in summer when we could leave, walk down the street, but in the winter, it's gonna be cold. Dark. It'll feel—stuck." He looked into his coffee, evading her gentle, inquisitive eye. "I'll hook 'em up," he said, gruffly, as though mechanical specs were what Leia was concerned about. Leia let Han pretend.

"Speaking of winter," Leia said, lightly. "You know we might starve to death. Neither of us can cook, and you can get stuck in the snow up here. Mon Mothma called the other day to say I can work from home, sometimes, if we get really snowed in..."

Leia trailed awkwardly off. Both looked shyly away from each other, from the implications of being newlywed and lost together.

XXXXXXXXXX

Lando Calrissian shot his cuffs, checking himself out in the full-length mirror. In a chair across the room Han Solo rolled his eyes, covering his mouth with a hand. Lando caught this in the glass, turning around, snapping his fingers. "What're you doin', man, on your behind? Get up, get moving!" Lando gestured at the racks of men's clothing.

Stubbornly Han folded his arms and crossed his ankles. "You didn't say anything about _me_ shoppin', when you asked me to meet you here."

Returning to his reflection, Lando smiled, adjusting the lapels of his new chalk-striped blazer. He called to Priscilla, up on a ladder, positioning felt fedoras onto hooks. "Miss Pris. This boy is getting married tomorrow, did you know that?"

Priscilla stopped mid-stretch. Married? She tried to smile, thinking of what she'd seen in the paper, that Leia Organa was supposedly engaged to that spoiled Isolder boy. Priscilla's heart had sunk, thinking of just _this_ handsome boy, his earnest recital of all Leia's attributes. She hoped he wasn't marrying another girl in haste just to prove something to himself, or someone else. That kind of lie wasn't fair to anyone. "Why, congratulations," Priscilla said, looking down at the prospective groom, who was glaring now at her favourite customer. "Who's the lucky lady?"

The scarred boy shuffled his feet, but couldn't hide the happiness angling one corner of his mouth. "Uh. Leia Organa. But keep that under your..." He lifted a playful eyebrow at her task. "... _hats._ "

"Oh, wonderful!" Priscilla's tentative smile ignited into genuine relief. "I knew when you were in here, choosing her clothes." The boy flushed, and Lando goggled.

"Choosing her— _what?_ _This_ guy? This scruffy-lookin'..."

Han scowled. "Who's scruffy-lookin'?"

"You still wear the pants they issued us in the army," Lando said. "You see me doing that?"

"Mine have the bloodstripe," Han shot back, in a rare invocation of his military honor. Lando conceded this point. "Anyway," Han drawled, with a smug, devilish grin. "They suit me. Or so I've heard."

"Bought her _clothes_." Lando clicked his tongue. "That is serious in-for- _ma_ -tion...you shoulda said something, Miss P!" Lando rubbed his thumb and fingers together. "I could have made you some _dollars_."

Coming down her ladder, Priscilla waved a dismissive hand at Lando, just as the groom-to-be stood up and began uncomfortably pacing. "Would you like some help deciding what to wear?"

" _Yes,_ " said Lando, just as Han muttered, "Nah. We're just goin' to the courthouse."

"Han," Lando said, deliberately, "Don't be an ass."

Han gestured along his body. "What's wrong with what I got? My clothes are clean."

"Oh, damn." Lando gave a rueful chuckle. " _Clean?_ Well, here, have another bloodstripe for _that_."

Han bristled. Lando added, "Listen: Solo, you are marrying _Leia Organa,_ you lucky bum. The Little Queen—don't ask me how, Priscilla, she is way outta his league—"

"I know, man, I know she is but I still don't see why—"

"My God, Han. We're brothers: Korea made us that. So let a man help his brother out with some straight talk. Boy, this is your wedding day. Get. A. _Suit._ Show your lady some respect."

Han opened his mouth, then closed it again, taking in this thought.

Priscilla cocked her head, scanning Han's long body. "Not a suit," she said, thoughtfully. "There's no time for that."

Lando threw up his clear-manicured hands. "A tie, at least."

Linking her arm through Han's, Priscilla gave him a bolstering pat. "Not a tie, either, I shouldn't think," she said, comfortingly. "But don't you worry, duckie. We'll have you dashing as Cary Grant."

"Miss P, you are _killing_ me. No tie?"

"For _your_ wedding day, Lando," Priscilla called over her shoulder as she led Han to a garment rack, "I will find you the most magical tie there ever was. But Han is a different man, with different—"

"But Pris," Lando said, silkily, "How will I ever marry, when you keep refusing me?"

"Quiet, you rascal, someone will nab you yet. As I was saying, Han, real style is about being yourself. Now, your trousers—do you have a formal pair of these?" She tugged at the knee of Han's black, yellow-striped pants. "Dress blue? Sharp crease?"

Han nodded. He'd never worn them.

"Excellent. Those will do perfectly." She shook out her tape measure, strung it around Han's chest. "Really, this will be easy. You truly have an ideal male frame."

Han smirked into the mirror at Lando.

"Yeah, too bad about that marked-up mug," Lando retorted.

Slotting pins between her lips, Priscilla said sweetly, "The scar? Go ask the bride what she thinks about _that._ " She tipped a wink at Lando's incredulous expression.

Han's smirk widened.

"What about shoes?" Lando demanded. "At least get some slick new kicks. Let me get 'em, Han. I owe you; you really came through for me with this sudden marriage thing, man. That was a real long shot." With a grin, Lando ruffled a sheaf of bills. "Dameron took the bulk, but I made out alright."

"Oh, sure. Glad to help. Good for you." Han snorted. "Yeah, alright. Priscilla, wouldja show me some _real expensive_ shoes?"

XXXXXXXXXX

After he left Lando, Han went into Knapp's Drugs to buy a comb. There, he ran into Officer Madine, who congratulated him on his spectacular race performance, which the locals were now openly calling the Kessel Run. Madine smiled. Of course, he hadn't, _absolutely hadn't,_ seen Han's run himself, because drag racing was _against the law_. Pointedly, Madine coughed, then asked if Han wanted to meet him the next morning.

"Uh," Han said. It would be his first married morning, but he didn't know really what that would mean, and anyway he wasn't sure he _could_ say no to Madine.

Madine grinned at the younger man's hesitation. "It's not what you think, Hank. See you out at the airport, eight o'clock. Don't be late."


	34. Chapter 34

September 29, 1956. Leia swung in her hammock, a roomy, thick cardigan sweater of Bail's that she'd just found with the fall bed-linens wrapped over her ivory suit. It was her wedding day, and she thought of her mother and father. She wondered, yet again, where they were, if they could somehow see her. If they were pleased for her, about her life. Leia sighed. Primarily she felt a constant flutter of nervous, happy excitement as she waited for Han to come outside. But Leia also felt a childish guilt knowing she'd thwarted her mother's plan for her—while also sensing, in some strange way, that Breha would somehow be happier that Leia had.

Leia turned to look at Luke. Swinging beside her in pressed khakis and a light blue turtleneck sweater—Luke had been keeping a stash of his clothes in R2's trunk, in preparation for his escape—her cousin gazed out over the ignited trees, over the lake blown pincord in the slight breeze. He looped an arm around Leia's shoulder, as though in response to Leia's unspoken thoughts. "You know I'll miss you most—but I'll miss it here, too. There's a spirit here, in the land. Something in the sky, the air, the water." He closed his eyes. "And that feels joyful. That feels right. I think we come from it, and someday we go back."

They hung, together, for a bit, revelling in their lifelong affinity, eternal and unspoken. And then Luke snapped his fingers, pulling something out of his pocket. It was a flat pebble from the beach, which Luke had painted in a wash of colors both delicate and durable, making it a tiny work of art. There was no clear picture; all the story was in the beauty, seemingly impossible at that scale but there it was—loveliness—persistent, vivid, and true. "It's for you," Luke said. "Something old. You figure those rocks must have at least a couple hundred years, right?"

Leia's eyes filled with tears. She closed her fingers over the precious rock, slipping it into the pocket of her suit, and rested her head on the shoulder of her first and best friend. _Luke._ Luke stayed so stubbornly _good_ , no matter what anyone did, no matter what was done to him. Even Anakin's abuse had, in the end, only magnified Luke's essential Lukeishness.

XXXXXXXXXX

When Han stepped onto the porch, he almost held his breath, he felt so unarmored and not himself. Coming down the stairs he'd gloated a bit at his feet; he thought, with a certain mercenary glee, that expensive shoes were really comfortable even right out of the box, even if they had nowhere to stash a knife. Lando had been horrified when Han had opted for an almost ruthlessly plain dark brown oxford, sleek and clean, no perforations or scrolling or frippery. Priscilla approved, as Lando begged him to go with the indigo suede, but Lando was oddly appeased by their cost. Fifty-five dollars! Han still shook his head. Plus the nice socks. The navy dress trousers were a similar fit to Han's everyday bloodstripes, and red down the sides, but of stiffer fabric. He wore them belted—Lando had lent Han his own beautiful brown belt, saying, with a wink, "Something borrowed,"—and tucked into his waistband was a very fine-woven, very crisp, very high-end fitted white cotton button-down shirt.

Not exactly some monkey suit. Simple, clean. Han was pleased with himself, the way he was when he'd finished crafting something out of wood—he appreciated Priscilla for putting him together. Still, he was slightly worried: would Leia think he hadn't tried hard enough?

He rounded the corner to the side of the porch, hands in his pockets, which Lando had hounded him about because it "spoiled the line" of the pants, whatever the hell that meant. And he saw Leia, radiant in her little ivory suit, her hair up and lipstick on, reading a book in the hammock, a pair of his socks pulled to her knees. Leia was so beautiful and attractively absorbed that Han felt his heart leap in his chest; he came to a stop in slow-breaking shock. _Leia Organa_. Leia, who was so herself, so self-possessed, would be his, too, _his_ , in just a few hours. Looking up, Leia's red lips parted when she saw Han, now leaning casually against a post as though it was every day he showed up, hair tidily combed, wearing a beautiful shirt that fit him just right and a pair of sleek dress blue pants. She let out a little gasp. Han grinned shyly at her, rubbing the back of his neck. "Lando," he said.

"Oh? Where is your polka-dot scarf?" Leia said back, standing up and slowly approaching him. Han laughed. "Okay, mostly Priscilla." Han tugged up his cuff, revealing striped socks. "But I let Lando go a little nuts."

Leia put her hands to Han's cheeks. Her voice trembled. "You are _so_ handsome."

He flushed with embarrassed pleasure and ducked down to kiss her. She tried to keep her hands from his hair. Eventually she noticed the box under Han's arm poking her. "Oh, right. These are for you. From Priscilla. She says, her wedding gift."

Inside the box were a pair of exquisite royal blue velvet heels. Leia clapped her hands to her mouth. Han chuckled. "Yeah, somethin' blue, she said." He eyed her feet. "But I don't think they're gonna fit over my socks."

Leaning on Han's shoulder, Leia tugged the huge socks off her seamed hose, then stepped into the heels herself. They were a perfect fit, and brought her closer to Han's face. Staring down at her Han's smile moved into a deeper happiness, his eyes going green and soft. He took her by the shoulders, and kissed her, almost gravely, on the forehead. "You look beautiful."

As Luke pulled into the driveway with Chewie, Han offered her his arm. "You ready to do this thing, Sweetheart?"

XXXXXXXXX

It wasn't the giddy, youthful drive to Mantell in R2, Luke and Han collapsing with laughter at Chewie's rendition of "Get Rhythm," that Leia would remember. It wasn't the actual brief, rather workmanlike ceremony, either. That part passed in a blur of words and paper, repeated and inked and agreed to and stapled and stamped, then given to Carlist Rieekan to run down the hall and immediately file with the will. No, Leia felt her shared, actual pledge with Han came before all that, on the marble stairs leading into the courthouse.

Leia, stepping light and fast up the long flight, had paused on the smooth white landing to look back, slightly breathless with nerves. She let her hand rest on the heirloom necklace belonging to Shara's mother, also Shara's "something borrowed," and in that circlet of hammered silver, warmed by her skin, Leia felt returned to the bond of women, of mothers and daughters. This female feeling was a poignant counterpoint to the sight of her men; Han was walking up the stairs with Luke, Chewie slightly behind, all of them looking radiant in the late-afternoon autumn sun. But Han—Han, he was staring at her with such determination and awe that her heart had seemed to bloom in her chest into something else, to flower into new chambers, crowding out any remaining fear that he didn't want to be here, with her, doing this. Paused, with Luke, two stairs below her, Han looked up at Leia and let his lopsided smile close one eye in a swift, sneaky wink, as though they were pulling off some heist. Still, his mischievous demeanour couldn't quite hide his happiness; he took her face and pulled her into a smiling kiss. _Flyboy._ How she'd grieved him, _them_ , and here they were, resurrected.

And then Han seized her hand and ran up the steps with her, as though he couldn't wait. As though he'd won the biggest, high-stakes gamble in the world; as though she was an honor rendered in gold. Han looked down at Leia with such love and disbelief, such warmth and light, that she closed her eyes, sending out a wild, silent keen of thanks to the universe.

XXXXXXXXXX

When they got back from Mantell and dropped Chewie off, it was dark. At Alder Glen Luke let them out of the car and said he was going up to Ben's for a bit. As they stepped toward the cabin, Luke waved Han back.

He looked intently up into the face of the man who'd picked him up on the side of the road only months ago, a lifetime since. Luke's voice broke in his chest before he got it out of his mouth. "Take care of Leia," Luke said, and had to look away, blinking fast, into the black-on-black of the sheltering branches.

"I promise, Luke." Han said solemnly, squeezing Luke's shoulder. Han turned and looked back at the porch, where Leia was waiting, with such hungry reverence that Luke felt suddenly calmed, sure, buoyed with rightness. Han looked back at Luke, flashed that irreverent smile, but his eyes were soft. "Turns out you were right, kid: I _do_ like her."

Luke nodded, clasping Han's hand in his. He wanted to say more—express how much Han's capable, easy way of being a man had meant to him, to his freedom, how knowing that Han was the sturdy bulwark between Leia and the world enabled Luke to pursue his dreams. But Luke's eyes were going filmy, and his breath was splintering in his chest, so all he could do was pull his friend into a hug. Han held him back. Luke didn't say that he was leaving New Hope now, tonight, for his new life in Chicago, as an artist. He'd said goodbye to Ben, and his friends, he'd kept his suitcase packed in his trunk for weeks. But somehow he couldn't bring himself to emotionally intrude on Han and Leia's wedding night. So Luke put the truth, he hoped, into his hard embrace, newly a man's, into the jubilant, grateful thump of his hand on his newlywed friend's broad back.

XXXXXXXXXX

They watched Luke back out the driveway. When he was gone, Han looked down at Leia; her face was aglow in the dim light shining through the closed curtains. Her lips opened into a delighted chirp when Han scooped her up into his arms. He pinned her with a look both playful and intent. "Isn't this how it goes?"

"It's a nice touch," Leia murmured. "For authenticity's sake."

"Authenticity, huh?" Han ducked in and kissed her, with such heated thoroughness that Leia forgot, for a moment, that they were still outside. It wasn't until he'd stepped over the threshold, until she felt the cabin's warmth that Leia came back to herself. Slowly, Han pulled back from her lips. "Whaaaaaaa...?"

The lamps were off, and the cabin's raftered ceiling had been strung with countless, tiny white lights that glimmered in the dim. Music was on, soft and crooning, and some ridiculously delicious smell wafted from the little kitchen. On the wall was a banner, in butcher's paper, that read _Congratulations,_ with the excessive exclamation points that were Annie's excitable trademark. Leia counted them. Fourteen? Leia blinked back tears at this proof of how irrepressibly happy this meant Annie had been. The banner was decorated with cut-out hearts and flowers, and signed by everyone at the diner, Shara, and a few from Cloud City, too—Lando, Willa, Donna. In the oven, keeping warm, was a roast chicken and vegetables from Chewie; in the fridge, Leia found a bottle of something very expensive from Lando, and what looked like a small coconut cake topped with a white die-cast toy truck. From the main room, Leia heard Han's laugh of disbelief: the Rogues had lugged in Chewie's jukebox, burbling its seductive neon in the corner.

Leia broke down, then. She was with Han. She was surrounded by the love of everyone she loved in return. She was in her own home. Han drew her close. "Aw, Sweetheart," he said, and stroked her hair. Han didn't try to explain her feelings to her, or himself, or talk her out of them; he just said _Sweetheart, Sweetheart,_ until Leia was calm.

"You're shivering," he said, his voice low.

She gave a deep sigh. "I'm just—I'm just—" Leia felt Han's fingers gently, deftly, removing her hairpins, her tightly braided crown tumbling down her back.

"Hungry?" Han looked at the kitchen.

"No." Leia said, suddenly unable to meet his eyes.

"Nah, me either. Not yet." He looked around the transformed room with wild, incredulous eyes. "I can't believe..." Han trailed off, unable to express...what? That he had such friends; that the Rogues had somehow dragged in an actual damned jukebox; that he and Leia had come through the last weeks like this, to this place, to find themselves married at the end of it. _I am a married man,_ he thought, dumbly. _I am married to Leia Organa because I stopped to pick up a happy hitchhiker._ Han closed his eyes a moment, savoring the feeling of thanks, of abundance, of resonant good fortune, something he'd lived most of his life unable to imagine.

Leia began to shake, harder, in his arms. He drew back, concerned. "I'm cold," she said, almost apologetically. "Maybe I'll—maybe I'll have a bath."


	35. Chapter 35

Author's Note: Okay, things gonna get adult. This is your cue to clear out if that's not your party. But if it is, um...party?

XXXXXXXXXX

When she came out of the bath, Han was sitting in the big easy chair. He'd built a fire and shed his handsome new shirt to keep it from getting soot-smudged, draping it over the back of a kitchen chair. His socks were off; he wore his navy-blue trousers and a white undershirt. Leia walked further into the room, her hair down, damp and loose, wearing a dark blue flannel worskshirt of Han's that fell to mid-thigh. His eyes raked over her as she approached, perching on the arm of his chair, swinging her bare legs across his lap.

Han shifted in the seat and cleared his throat. He'd obviously been practising his thoughts as she bathed, converting them into speech. "So. Listen, Princess. All this—" Han paused, as though reviewing his store of words. "I know it's all been kinda sudden, and I don't want you to think that we have to do—anythin' on account of it bein', y'know, a wedding night and all that."

" _Our_ wedding night," Leia softly corrected, resting her head on Han's shoulder. He nodded and brought his hand to her hair, long fingers gently, absently working out any tangles as they sat in close silence.

Finally Leia said, "Han—that night—I wouldn't have asked anyone else. I _do_ trust you."

He scratched at his jaw. "I hope so, by now," he said, quietly.

Damn it. Leia hadn't intended to say she trusted him as though she'd only just now realized it. She'd forgotten how easily Han bruised under his strut, how sensitive he was to perceived devaluation. In a rush to explain, Leia paraphrased the girls she'd overheard talk about him. "I meant I trust you _exclusively,_ Han. With—with me, with that. I knew you'd be—because you're so—look at the way you are with parts replacement, you..."

He turned an astonished face to her. " _Parts replacement?_ "

Leia clapped her palms to her cheeks, spread her fingers over her eyes. Would this mission into embarrassment never end? But after a moment Han took her wrists and gently opened her hands, like shutters, to bare the small blazing sun of her face. He leaned close. " _Those_ parts. Are. Mechanical, Princess."

There was a mortifying moment of eye contact until Leia realized Han's eyes were dancing and then she laughed, suddenly, helplessly. Leia laughed so hard she sagged against his broad chest, bouncing with Han's own laughter; he curled an arm around her shoulders and they simply sat, together, leaning back against the chair as their mirth tapered off.

"I meant," Leia said, in a small, private voice, into his chest. "You're patient, exact...I've seen your imagination, your—your grace. I only meant, Han. I wanted you, because I see the care you take."

Han blinked at the wooden beams of the ceiling, up into the twinkling lights, wondering why his vision had gone blurry, why he couldn't answer.

Leia sat up slightly, then, and went on: "It's okay. Let's forget it—"

Han made a frustrated sound in his throat. A muted growl. Leia knew it well. It was the sound she'd heard from him before when something wasn't working as it should—not the general breaking and maintenance that he handled with his usual string of colourful curses, these were standard. No, this was the sound Han made when he turned inside his own mind to search in earnest for an urgent solution. It was the sound of Han demanding miracles from himself.

He made the sound again, now, between his teeth. "That's not it," Han seethed. His eyes were so green now, and so close; so hot and intense that she gasped. "Damn it, Leia, don't you _know_ —do you really think I don't—"

He kissed her, then, as though to cut off his own voice. In that kiss was a pledge, fiery and absolute, forged in everything Han Solo had ever had and everything he had not.

XXXXXXXXXX

For a long, starved stretch they turned raw hunger upon each other, devouring lips and necks and collarbones, earlobes. Time seemed measurable only in the lovers' songs flowing over them from the jukebox. Music seemed to go on forever as they kissed one another, hands in hair, tiny whimpers, breaths, his long thumb stroking just behind her ear. Then Han's palm grazed a breast through the flannel shirt. Leia abruptly pulled away, breaking his kiss.

Han immediately withdrew his hand. "Sorry," he panted. "Sorry, I—"

His eyes went wide as Leia began, with quick, nimble fingers, to unbutton the flannel shirt until it hung like curtains around her, baring her beautiful rose-tipped breasts, flat belly, her little plain white briefs.

"Oh. _Sweetheart,_ " Han whispered, rapturous. Overwhelmed, Han closed his eyes. His mind-voice said, with sudden fierce clarity: _You're going to go there with her._ He reached behind his back and tugged his undershirt off. They looked at one another, breathing hard, and then they fell back together, resuming the never-ending kiss. Han's right arm was curved around Leia's shoulders; he drew his left hand down, lightly, over her breasts as he kissed her, stroking, palming one and then the other. When she whimpered and pressed closer, Han kissed her still deeper and let his hand wander to palm her flat belly, fingers only just grazing the waistband of her underwear. Han didn't mean to go this fast, but really it was though there was no choice, anymore; things were unfolding as they were, swift but somehow infallible, not truly in his control. His hand trailed lower and his gaze followed, sandy lashes sweeping his cheeks, green gaze moving back to her face as he breached the band of Leia's panties. His touch, at once gentle and wonderfully abrasive, was a tender shock. Leia couldn't hold Han's intense gaze; she jolted, then melted, back arched over his arm, over the arm of the chair. He followed her downward, bringing his mouth, open and hot, to her breasts even as his fingers wound a teasing spiral between her legs. Her hands tightened in his hair, on his shoulder. His strong wrist brushed her hipbone as Han found a twisting rhythm, settling in. Distantly Leia heard herself making sounds, small and round as pearls, and like pearls these vowels were strung together, she was strung on a cord Han was pulling tighter and tighter.

Leia sat up, suddenly, unaware she was going to do it; she slung a leg across Han and moved fully into his lap, facing him. Han bit his lip as she settled herself against his ache, curiously trailing her fingers over his bare shoulders, through the rusty hair across his chest. He braced his hand at her lower back and bent his head, pulling the tip of Leia's breast into his mouth along with a breath. She whimpered, twitched, and Han smiled against her skin—and then Leia rocked, hard, against him. Any budding male smugness vanished into a long, helpless shiver.

He hadn't meant for it to go this fast, was Han's repeated, disjointed thought as Leia kissed him, tightening the grip of her knees at his hips, grinding against him. But it was, it was—his blood flooding with heat, Han fixed Leia with a look, deep and direct, and found her again with two fingers, slipping his hand back into her damp underwear. He kissed her, winding his fingers until she squirmed in his lap; and then he let one finger gently plunge and her fingers dug into his shoulders and she arched back, making him pant against her lips. Han wound her and wound her until Leia moved helplessly against him, against his hand, moaning hot, wordless demand into his mouth. Finally she rose on her knees and slipped her panties off. Han jerked down his own boxer-briefs and trousers, kicked them away.

Leia blinked, a moment, to see him. At first he worried, she looked intimidated, but then, fascinated, she took him in her hand. Shuddering, Han caught her wrist.

"Leia. Wait." Han whispered. "I gotta—Leia. Let me, I gotta go get something."

Leia shook her head, pressing little kisses all over his face. "Now."

"No, no, I don't wanna get you—"

"You can't," she smiled. "It's okay. The doctor gave me a pill to take."

Quizzically, Han cocked his head. Leia adopted his own growl, and kissed his ear. "Science, current events, remember?"

Han gulped. He'd never been inside a woman, bare, before. He'd never been with a virgin, either, to his knowledge. But this was Leia, he reminded himself. This was _Leia,_ and he loved her, and she loved him. He pulled back and asked her final assent with his eyes. His gaze was like the forest outside, dark and soft and wild. Despite the size of him seeming impossible against her thigh, Leia nodded. Han took gentle hold of Leia's hips and kissed her, generous and deep, as he eased her down into his lap.

There was pressure, sharp enough that Leia bit her lip and also, accidentally, his. Han stilled, brushing a wisp of hair from her cheek. His eyes on her face became a watchful, soft yellow; his mouth quirked ever so slightly to the side, sympathetic, regretful. Leia briefly interpreted his self-control, the mute apology in his expression, as a lack of passion. But then, as he pressed on again, Leia watched Han's eyelids flutter shut and his brow crease. She watched him try, and fail, to speak. He seemed to be struggling against something, trying to resist the tug of something primal and sweet as sleep.

Further; there was pain now. Leia tensed and Han stopped at once, trembling as though he was taking some crushing weight entirely upon himself, to spare her. And Leia knew that this tidal pull Han was resisting was _her_ , was found in her. She'd made him weak and still Han was fighting himself, for her; trying to resist Leia in order to shield her. This knowledge freed Leia into a trust so deep it became a kind of wildness. As Elvis crooned from the jukebox that only fools rush in, Leia gripped Han's shoulders and seated herself, took him fully into herself. Took Han home, all at once, letting him know she shared the burden of want.

They both cried out with it, with the same sudden blaze of joy and pain. Han threw his head back so hard it hit the windowsill behind the chair with an audible _thock_. His eyes flew open, now molten copper. He looked into her face, brought a shaking hand to her cheek.

" _Leia._ Are you all right?"

"I'm—I," She inhaled sharply, shifting in Han's lap. "Oh..." Leia closed her eyes, feeling the searing pain fade to a hot, sweet pulse.

"Look at me. Look at me, Leia, I need to know you're..." Leia moved again, forcing a strangled whine from her new husband. _Husband._ Leia opened her eyes, gave a disbelieving, giddy laugh. "Han. I'm okay." She stroked the back of his skull, where he'd bumped it. "Are _you?_ "

"Yeah. _Yes._ Just," Leia gave an experimental rocking motion; Han caught his plump lower lip between his teeth. "Just gimme a minute." He hissed in a breath. "Jesus, Leia. You're _so_..." He pressed his forehead to hers, breathing hard, one hand still cradling her cheekbone, the other clutching her hip.

For a long moment they were still, together, sharing breath, sharing this same, marvellous space, letting music wash over them. Then Han nudged her nose with his, kissed her; he brought his hands to her back and guided her forwards, flexed himself gently upwards, just a press and release, and Leia went softly with him, in response. But soon more urgent energy seized her, seized them both. It was though they realized, together and all at once, that they were together, even after everything. Unbreakable. And they moved with praise for good fortune and also grief at the nearness of loss, how close they'd come to the abyss.

The whole thing got away from them then. This new thing raced away with them, rocking them into agonizing rhythm, irresistible pace, into sighs and kisses and encouragements. Leia, as she always did, went to her store of words to try to understand, to classify this new experience to herself. But this, this with Han, defied her descriptive powers. One moment she'd labelled the feeling a sweet welling, but then it became rough stars in her belly. It was a constriction, then an ebbing; it was a cluster of tingling sparks. None of these images fit and all of them fit; there was no right word, no word for it, for this power, gathering. She took Han's face between her hands, looking at him for explanation, but his look of slapped shock, his exhilarated half-grin, said that this was new to him, too. Han wasn't introducing this thing to Leia anymore, wasn't revealing it to her so much as sharing its emergence with her. Leia strained against Han's lips, his hips. Strained against herself, against some deep, raw ache, or was it a shape? A feeling one moment almost in reach, the next elusive. Something in her hurtled toward it and something resisted. Leia grasped at Han, trying to convey her frantic amazement. Trying to name it, to know it, what she needed.

Han stood, easily supporting her slight weight. She could feel his hands shaking on her thighs as he lowered Leia to her back on the floor, onto the nest of bedding, withdrew, then drove back in, smooth, complete, answering her moan with a ragged _ohhh fuck._ Something in this—that hunger for her had driven Han to crudeness, the impact of his want—brought Leia closer to that hot, emergent feeling.

Then Han brought himself fully to bear upon her, brought his good, warm weight down on her and Leia sensed something catch under his firm, resolute stroke, like when she'd learned to feel the clutch. Like Han was goading her to another level. Bridging under his relentlessness, Leia went rigid, one foot arched at his lower back, the other at his thigh, her mouth pressed to Han's throat in a silent cry. But still she didn't—couldn't—break. Again she strove toward it, then staved it off; strung taut as the horizon, Leia almost wailed. Then Han slipped his hand between them _,_ dragging the rough pad of his thumb against her _there_ in broken circles, in time with their rhythm. Suddenly the feeling was entirely, wonderfully, terrifyingly out of Leia's hands. Everything went gorgeous and unbearable; she cried out, maybe warning Han, maybe begging him. She clutched at his shoulders, his hair, his neck, his back in a kind of delicious panic.

"S'okay, Sweetheart," he panted, his voice gravelly and strained. "Just let it, let it come over—"

Leia cracked like a whip. She was brimming, like every dream, hope, want rushed into her at once, rose to her lips as his name, filling her eyes with color, light, saltwater. Han gave an exhalation of joyful attainment, pausing to hold Leia through it as she arched under him, as she quaked and called out to him. Han thought his heart would break from its new weight, from the new way he heard his name in Leia's wild voice. From the beauty of her thrumming body, her enthralled face.

Han pressed kisses to Leia's throat, chin, eyelids, cheeks, nose. Her neck, shoulders, chest. As she drifted down, Leia felt his soft, breathless laugh against her breasts, a laugh of amazement and appreciation. When she opened her eyes Han was beaming down at her, earnest, proud, almost shy. She trailed her quivering fingers over the crinkled corners of his eyes. _Oh, Flyboy._ Leia grabbed Han's jaw and kissed his laughing mouth, again and again.

They traded sweet kisses, sweet, and then these kisses grew deeper, intent. When Han pressed against her again he was gentle, even tentative, as though he'd become unsure of himself. Tilting her hips up, Leia met his eyes and nipped at his lip, his jaw. Han's eyes flared stunned, then hungry. Holding Leia's look, Han moved into her faster, harder, rousing sparking contact that made both whimper. He growled, seemed to give himself over—to feeling, to Leia, to something larger. At last she felt his rhythm break; he caught her bottom in one hand and hauled her tight and close, ground himself against her. Han spoke in a desperate, wounded rush: "God, Leia; Leia, _please—_ "

His hips jerked, his eyes fell shut, and his full lips fell open, soft, pained. Han gave a small sound, then, almost choked back. _Gratitude_ , Leia pulled from her store of words. _Relief. Grief? Surrender._ She stroked Han's back as he shuddered, pressing her lips to the heaving chest above her, listening to Han gasp that he loved her, loved her, loved her. When he'd stilled he gazed down at Leia, dazed and blinking and awed, as though into the dawn.

"I love you, too," Leia whispered.

Han opened his mouth, but then ducked his head, almost hid, sighing shakily into the nook of her shoulder and neck.


	36. Chapter 36

The newlyweds woke in the middle of the night wrapped together on the floor, the fire low, shivering, starving. After they tore into brief dinner, overcooked but delicious, they hurried laughing across the floor towards the sleeping loft. At the base of the stairs Han caught Leia, scooped her up in his arms and said, against her lips, "Now, Princess, you see why the ladder was such a stupid idea." He carried her up the stairs, wriggling under his nipping kisses, and tumbled them onto the big iron bed.

On their sides, face to face, pressed close for warmth under the quilts, Leia giggled to feel the immediate proof of Han's desire against her belly. Han smiled back, half-proud, half-sheepish at his own readiness. But then she caught him in her hot little hand and he groaned, dropping his forehead to her shoulder.

Han had never been much of a taker in bed before—he was paying too much attention, setting himself too many objectives. So when his hips began an involuntary thrust into her grip Han tried to stop Leia's touch, tried to reach for her instead, but she batted his hand away. "Let me, Han," Leia murmured against his neck. "I want to, please. Just let me." What could Han do but yield into her sweet force? And Leia Organa, a virgin as of mere hours ago, drove Han Solo to near-madness with just her tiny hand, with her nibbles and kisses at his neck. She levelled him to _nothing._ To whining, writhing. At the end, he clamped his own huge hand over Leia's own as it worked him, gripping tight, tighter. At the end Han heard his own voice, broken to grit: _Like that, yeah like that_ _Sweetheart, just like—_ before Leia robbed him of all speech but the most vital and base. _Close, oh. Christ. Princ—_

He sprawled on his back, panting, for a long time after, his forearm slung over his eyes, his other hand stroking Leia's hair. Han felt new and vulnerable, too exposed to look at her. Leia seemed to understand, simply breathing alongside him, resting her cheek on his heaving chest. Finally he turned to her and kissed her, long and soft, stroking her cheekbone with the backs of his knuckles. Just as Han angled his head to move in deeper, the alarm clock went off. He groaned in his throat, but regretfully got up.

Leia watched Han move, naked, to the rocking chair, where he'd slung his clean clothes. He was so beautiful, she marvelled, watching him climb into his boxer-briefs, returned to full, glorious health. So tall and golden and well-proportioned, relaxed in his strong, lithe form. Briefly Leia wondered if Han was so comfortable in his body because it had so long been his only real possession, his only real home. He saw her looking and winked at her. It was fascinating to see Han, now, restored to swagger after he'd been so recently helpless. Leia thought of the current of need she'd felt under her hands, heard in his ruined voice, how his whole body had gone rigid with it.

Sex was fascinating. Leia wanted to know everything.

Han heard her giggling. Stepping into his pants, he cocked a brow.

"What's so funny, you she-devil?"

"It's not funny," Leia said. "Well, not _funny_ -funny, not—oh Han, I'm not laughing _at_ you. I was just thinking—if I'd stopped, before you—you'd have done anything, wouldn't you?"

Han's mouth opened in disbelief. His new wife's eyes were bright as stars, and she was still giggling; not in scorn, Han understood, but in delight, in daring, in discovery. In the air, Han could almost taste the new rogue sweetness he'd helped free. _Kitten-curious,_ Han reminded himself.

 _But also competitive._

"You mean, to come?" Han challenged, squarely meeting her eyes as he slowly buttoned his fly.

Leia turned immediate red. _Bullseye._ "Is...that what it's called?"

"Yes, Miss Reporter." His grin softened. " _Mrs._ Reporter. That's what it's called."

Still pink, Leia pressed stubbornly on, accepting the dare of his bluntness. Up came her chin. "You'd have promised me anything, wouldn't you? Men will do anything, at the end."

"O _ho_ ," Han began fastening the pearl snaps of his denim work-shirt, slowly padding towards the bed. "You think men get real desperate for it, huh?"

Languidly, Leia stretched. Han bit his lip; her bare body was so beguiling, there, shadowed and peaked beneath the sheet. She saw him looking and looked brazenly back. "I think _you_ do _._ "

Han felt a hot, rushing ache but kept his voice cool. "Oh, Sweetheart," he said, clicking his tongue in mock dismay. "You naughty little thing, you don't even know what you've done. You wanna play this game? Well, you're on."

"What do you mean?"

"Wait and see, Leia. Wait and see. I gotta go meet Madine, you minx. _Your_ job today is to imagine—" He broke off, chuckling, and shook his head. "You think _I'm_ the only one gets wrecked?" Fully dressed, Han leaned down over Leia, close enough that he could see the pulse tripping in her long, white throat. He nuzzled at that swift drumbeat, then brought his mouth to hers but didn't kiss her. Just spoke, his voice rough velvet against her lips. "Guess again, Missus. You stay here all day and think about what comes next."

"Captain, thinking of you isn't quite enough to get me excited."

Han knew Leia meant to sound dismissive, but her eyes were hazy, there was a tremor to her voice. With a teasing smile, Han slid his other hand beneath the sheet. At his sure, slow touch Leia's eyelids fluttered shut, and her lips made a perfect, wanting bud. She arched; Han pressed her belly flat with the palm of his hand. "Don't move, Princess, stay just like that." He lightly circled his fingers until Leia clutched the sheet with a sweet, hungry cry. Han kissed her shallowly, once, twice, never taking his eyes from her face. And he withdrew his hand. "Sorry, Sweetheart," Han purred, standing straight. "I haven't got time for anything else."

Flashing her a grin of pure carnal promise, Han was out the door before his new wife caught her breath.


	37. Chapter 37

Author's Note: Sorry for late update. Okay, I ain't even gonna lie, there's significant fluff and adult content ahead in these chapters. I promise the show hasn't gone full-smut now—there's still plot to be worked through yet!—but these two demanded a bit of a honeymoon after all the torture I've put them through. Hope you don't mind too much.

I continue to be endlessly moved, inspired and delighted by your consistent, generous, and thoughtful support. And now: on with the soap. Xo!

(Message to LoveThis, who asked me a question in a review but I can't seem to answer you directly: sorry about that! I made Han younger in this universe because I wanted him to feel a part of the rock 'n' roll, hot rods pop youth culture of the 1950s. I also felt an older Earth Han could be constrained by more rigid gender roles than a younger man [although I'm sure I'm already taking some liberties there—but Han's never had a "traditional family" anyway, so I see some leeway for originality and openness in him about gender and marriage attitudes]. Plus, very young Harrison Ford in "American Graffiti" is dreamy and a major aesthetic inspiration here. Anyway, doesn't bother me at all that canon Han is 30-ish—fits there somehow. Hope that answers your interesting question. Thanks for all your support and interest, LT, you've been such a wonderful participant in all this!)

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In the Falcon's tiny shower, Han scrubbed away airplane engine grease. The shower, never really hot, was outright chilly on the last day of September—he really had to rig that big cabin tub with a showerhead—but still Han grinned madly under a sheet of Ivory suds, shaking his head at himself. Han knew he was an acutely gifted driver, but he'd almost gone off the road a couple of times, this first morning as a married man, thinking of her: Leia, the new reality of her. Of them. He couldn't stop seeing how she looked in his arms, ecstatic and transported. And how Han had felt, too, he...he...hell, he wasn't really a word guy, but he knew that it—sex had never _been_ like that, before: it had never been like _that_ , he hadn't been _prepared_ for that.

In fact Han felt a thin but persistent fear, underneath all the thrills of the last two days, that none of this was real at all. There was no wondrous discovery of Leia, no there was no new job—he was going to wake, any second, in a cramped Corell Home bunk, or in Korea, or in his shabby furnished apartment in Baltimore, or in Millie by the side of the road, on his way out of New Hope. Somewhere, somehow, Han felt, some part of him remained alone, or would be returned to aloneness. Banished. It was stupid, even faithless, to doubt his luck, Han knew that, but still his mind-voice sent up persistent, vigilant alarms: _Too good, Solo. Too good._

Han hurried in the shower not because he was cold, but because the only thing that could cure his fear was Leia.

Wearing just his unbelted blue bloodstripes and humming "Get a Job," Han left the Falcon. Damp skin of his torso prickling in the brisk air, he ran around the cabin and cleared the three porch steps in one long leap, impatiently brushing his bare soles against the boards to loosen any gravel before he went inside. At this time of day, early afternoon, Leia was usually at her Formica table-desk, scribbling notes and listening to the radio. But now the cabin was so quiet inside that the ticking of the pale-pink kitchen clock seemed intrusive. Was Leia napping? She didn't, normally, but they hadn't slept much last night, and Han had, after all, playfully ordered her to stay in bed.

Maybe she _had._

Blood surging, Han took the stairs two at a time. He stopped at the top as though he'd been hit. Leia was asleep on her side on the tidily made bed, in an ingot of sunshine from the window. The newspaper had drifted to the wooden floor, her notebook was under her hand, and a pencil was tucked into her loose hair. Leia wore one of Han's clean white undershirts—on her tiny form, it was almost a little shift—and the red cardigan sweater he'd bought her. One slim leg was bent over the other, knee pulled almost to her ribs. Leia was posed so like she had been the first time Han ever saw her that all he could do was resume his stance from Starwood, too: stopped in time in a doorway, staring at her. But now his view of Leia was overlaid with such precious, intimate new data that Han audibly swallowed to review it.

He walked quietly into the room on his bare feet and knelt beside the bed, content to look. Leia's sleeping expression alternated between perfect peace and a concentration so endearingly serious it made Han smile. Up this close, he could see that Leia's pert nose was sprinkled with freckles, like cinnamon on milk; her lips were still kiss-swollen and slightly parted. Her spectacular hair had dried wavy and wild after never having been braided for bed, after having his hands in it all night, and it pulled threads of red from the dense gold light. Gently Han plucked the pencil from behind her ear and set it on the bedside table, next to the ticking Timex clock. He extended an index finger to stroke a russet strand. Ah, Leia. Leia. His girl. His wife.

Han's coarse fingertip snagged slightly on Leia's hair. Those unbelievable lashes fluttered apart, and Han saw himself reflected in drowsy brown eyes. Han gave her a contrite wince, but couldn't bring himself to be too sorry for waking Leia when her face opened into a brilliant smile that made Han feel like the embodiment of all wonderful surprises. He felt his own smile beaming back. With a hand on his whiskered cheek Leia drew Han close, into a sleepy kiss. "H'lo, Sweetheart," Han murmured against her lips, resting his own hand lightly on her hip. His eyes swept over her; he gave a little groan. "Now, _what_ have we here...heeeyyyy." Han's eyes lit up with impish inspiration. "Listen: a guy can whistle at his missus, right?"

Leia blinked down at herself. "In this?"

Raising his eyebrows enough to rumple his forehead, Han nodded, his gaze following his fingertips' glide into the pronounced dip of Leia's waist, then back up over the swell of her hip in an easy circuit, the hem of the undershirt riding slightly up with each pass. He gave a whistle, not wolfish; just one low, venerating note. "Uh, yes, Princess, _in this._ "

"I just put this on because I hand-washed my wedding suit and the shirt I borrowed from you, um...last night." Glancing at him, Leia blushed, then looked away. "I didn't see any point to making more laundry by getting properly dressed."

"Oh, I agree," Han sighed happily, letting his gaze roam. Leia wasn't wearing a brassiere, and it wasn't exactly this fact—though it wasn't _not_ that fact, either, God she was beautiful, beautiful—that inflamed Han so much as what the lack of that garment signified. An expectant relaxation, almost an acknowledgement of his specialized knowledge. Han's chest expanded with a tender, lustful pride—not boastful, not even exactly possessive, he felt too stunned, too grateful for that. He had access to Leia in a way no one did, no one had; and it wasn't merely sex he meant or prized, or her private loveliness, but her trust. Of course, Han was beginning to understand, these new feelings were all enmeshed: love, hunger, gratitude, hope. It was as if another binding was twining around his heart, this one lush and soft and welcoming and close as Leia's body, as Leia's eyes. This new confinement moved with Han, it grew with him; somehow he believed its warmth would support and accommodate every evolution.

But there was that fear, still. That small, mean chill at the back of Han's neck: was this real? Permanent? Did this mean to Leia what it meant to him? She'd said she loved him, he felt her love for him, yet they'd never deeply discussed their emotional terms, even now—and now there was so much at stake, for him at least. So much to lose. To evade these thoughts, Han tried to concentrate on fact: Leia was real, here, now, in the sunlight. His sight testified to the truth of Leia, his fingertips declared her heat, and in her eyes was a radiance that he could almost feel on his skin—a glow that felt meant for him, singular to him. But Han couldn't see her heart. He couldn't see her mind, and Han's own trust was hard to engage. Rusted shut. Would she always make him this nervous? Again Han let his palm swoop over Leia's hip, and now along her bare thigh, to her knee, then back up. Touch helped. Touching her sped his heart past the point of faltering. Han completed this loop several times as he watched Leia's natural alertness return to her eyes.

She rose on an elbow, looking over her notebook. "Mon Mothma called and asked if I could ghostwrite the etiquette advice when I start work this week—I was reading the column, I must have fallen asleep..." Leia looked at Han, the last of her sleepiness burning off in her unstoppable curiosity. "Wait! Han! What happened with your..."

Still kneeling on the floor, Han angled in and took her mouth, hot and open and urgent. With a trill of startled pleasure, Leia sank a hand in his damp hair and received him.

"Loved planes since I can remember, Princess," Han mumbled against Leia's lips. "Tore pictures'a planes outta the paper." He slid his hand under the hem of the long shirt to cup Leia's round bottom, speaking between kisses. "Fighters, bombers, cargo, little prop numbers. The other guys in the home had Betty Grable pinups, man, Rita Hayworth; and me? Gimme Bell 'n' Beechcraft." The neck of his undershirt was so loose on Leia that Han easily freed her breasts and he drew back to look. Breathing hard, Leia studied Han in return. His thick hair retained a summer lightness and this close she could see the dark bronze of his eyelashes, his nascent whiskers, track his eyes' change from green to gold. Slowly Han shook his head, incredulous, gaze moving between her eyes and chest. Moving in to nuzzle her ear, her neck, ridged thumbs bringing her nipples to peaks, Han's voice was so low, so confiding that Leia held her whimpers, held her breath: "Guy named Doc saw me in the race, owns an air delivery outfit. Wants me to apprentice as his Cessna mechanic. He's gotta 190, a 195—hell," Han's lips travelled along her clavicles, "I'd do it for free, I'd pay _Doc_ to let _me_ and here he's gonna give me six per sixty, few times a week." Still those thumbs moved, palms weighing, stroking. His voice dropped to a register that made Leia shiver. "I spent today workin' on _planes,_ Sweetheart _..._ " Pulling back again Han searched her eyes, his own eyes bright with craving, avidity, a sliver of wariness. "...dream come true, and all I thought about, Leia, the whole fuckin' time? Was _you_."

Han dropped his head almost fiercely to her nipple. The wet-sharp pull, the good sting of his whiskers made Leia heave a shuddering sigh. He tugged off her sweater, tossed it to the floor. Gathering the hem of his undershirt and bidding her sit upright, Han peeled that from her, too. From his knees, Han looked at Leia perched on the edge of the bed, gorgeous ivory and rose-gold in the setting of her backlit hair, bare breasts rising and falling with her breath, and a primal fear rose along with his primal want. He loved a woman—this woman, Leia Organa (Solo?) more than _airplanes_ and what did this mean? Planes were God to Han, God. They always had been. Han felt a creeping superstition, heard that perturbed voice again: _too good_. Han's fingers looped into the sides of Leia's underwear and he pulled them off, parting her knees. She gasped—he knew it was abrupt, but Han was driven to counter his mind's contribution of unease—match it, surpass it, consume it in devotion.

In what seemed like one motion Han slung Leia's legs over his shoulders and brought his mouth to her, hot and enveloping and precise all at once. A sound wrenched from Leia's chest; she reeled, her fingers raking into his hair for purchase, but as he found her with his tongue she almost collapsed back onto the mattress, catching her weight on her elbows in shock. Han felt a tiny foot seize against his spine and growled with satisfaction.

"What's that, Miss Etiquette?" Han asked, voice muffled. "Mindin' them Ps and Qs?"

Leia moaned an unidentifiable half-word.

"No Ps _or_ Qs in that sound, Princess..." Han gave a soft, slightly crazed laugh and paused to look at her, his hair mussed, expression adoring and diabolical. "Is that mostly Ms, you figure? A couple Ns? Gonna hafta hear it again." He adjusted the angle of his fingers, brought his lips and tongue back to her. Leia made another low, wild sound. "Oh, yeah, _that's_ the one," Han said, against her.

Falling completely to her back, Leia turned her face into her raised arm. She tried to speak to Han, her hands knotting in the quilt, feet flexing uncontrollably against his shoulder blades, but she could shape only the beginning of the word before dissolving into exhalation. "Was that an _H?_ Was that my _name?_ Say it again for me, Princess." Han's own voice was unsteady now, undercutting the tease with a streak of need. He wasn't smiling anymore, eyes deeply lidded and hazy-hot. "Ah, Leia, say it again..."

One large hand at her hip kept her snug and close so he could feel her, really feel when it got too much and when it did, when Leia's muscles locked and her breaths came thin and quick, Han rose and several things seemed to happen at once: as Han hungrily kissed her, he unbuttoned his fly and Leia used her feet to push his pants down his thighs; he caught one of her bent knees in the crook of his arm and Leia hooked her other knee at his waist and pulled him as he pressed, hissing, inside. Han didn't want to push her so fast—this was only her second time, but he couldn't help his size and his instinctive stroke was whole and sure and Leia's eyes flew wide, she cried out even as Han groaned a helpless _Leia, Christ_ , her fingernails spearing his one braced wrist.

"Sweetheart," Han choked. "Is this—am I—?"

" _Han._ " Leia breathed the syllable in vehement assent, her head falling back against the sunlit quilt and so like sunlight he moved over her warm and slow and strong. As she whimpered and clutched at and surrounded him, Han veered between the earthy and the exalted, one minute muttering sweetly filthy oaths into Leia's shoulder, her mouth, her hair, the next lost in desire so abandoned and importuning it was almost prayer. The crest of each thrust became sustained, an exchange of insistence and promise, a spending of themselves in tender negotiation until at last Leia gave a little chain of cries, nonsensical, musical— _oh I'm, I'm—_ passed into Han's mouth with her urgent kiss where they became his own sounds, raw and awed. For a long, agonized moment Han teetered at some zenith and then he was blissfully erased, gone, yet somehow with Leia, bound up in Leia. Lost, found.

They didn't speak after, just gasped, kissed, petted, soothing one another towards afternoon sleep. Leia fell away first, leaving Han drifting in their mystery, watching prismatic motes of dust, softly buffeted by her breaths against his chest. He was no longer aware of any lack of faith—not consciously, at least, not here, safe, in Leia's embrace. Maybe the trick was, Han thought dimly, just before he, too, slept—maybe the trick was to leave anxiety unexpressed: just let it pass, like this, into irresistible rest.


	38. Chapter 38

"Hey, Echo Three!"

Reading in the armchair, Leia smiled, rolled her eyes. Somehow, over the course of Luke's regular calls from the road to Chicago, Han and Luke had adopted this absurd code. Echo Three, Echo Seven? Leia wasn't sure it was a joke anymore. Last week she'd overheard Han telling Luke about the "mission" he'd been on to secure some Cessna part in Mantell, and Luke had told Leia that living in the dorm was great, just like joining some secret spy order. _Boys._ But Leia was happy that her adored cousin and her new husband had formed such a solid bond, even if they both thought they were Robert Mitchum in _Foreign Intrigue_.

"Married life? Well, kid, it's..." Long body draped as though on display against the kitchen counter, pastel yellow receiver of the wall-mounted phone tucked between his ear and shoulder, Han shot Leia a winsome, sinful grin. "...pretty good." Somehow Han made the very mildness of the words into some licentious invitation to her.

Leia felt her face heat. It was true, the newlyweds were in hopeless carnal entanglement, seemingly interrupted only by work and errands. Han could arrive at the hangar largely when he pleased, but he chose to go on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays, Leia's workdays, so he could drop her off downtown in the morning and pick her up in the late afternoon. Often they went to eat supper at the diner, oblivious to the fond laughter of their friends as they squeezed on one side of a booth, dopey, dreamy, almost drugged. They were readily spotted walking down Main Street, always intertwined; not hand-in-hand, but closer: Han's arm slung over Leia's shoulders, hers about his waist, heads inclined together.

For the rest of their lives, Han and Leia would smile secretly at one another whenever anyone or anything—a friend, a news report, a song, a film—referenced the autumn of 1956. He would surreptitiously wink at her, she would touch his knee, one or another would link their fingers, whisper _Pretty good._ That fall, those first weeks of their married life, it was as though they were on some sort of slow, lingering trip. No one else existed. When they were at home but not together Han went about his self-imposed chores—chopping wood, raking leaves—with his heart sore and soaring; Leia curled in the bath, newly bookless, unable to concentrate on anything other than him. They both knew it was a little nuts, their fixation on each other, but it was so delicious they were powerless to resist.

They carried each other into their new jobs, too: Han was inspired, surprising his new boss and the other guys, even himself, with his quick aptitude for airplane mechanics. He'd always intuitively understood machinery but this was something else. Somehow, Han's sense of how things worked had never been more efficient, effective, inventive and pinpoint- _right_ as now, stumbling into the hangar on two hours' sleep, bleary and dazed and still buzzing from orgasm, thinking of her every second every part of her every sound every plea every searching, searing arch against him. _Poor boy's a newlywed_ , Doc laughed with the journeymen, when the whiz-kid apprentice forgot his lunch in his truck for the fortieth time and had to jog back across the field along the landing strip to the far parking lot, missing half his break, tearing into his sandwich and apple on the run—God Han was so ravenous, that fall. Always starved. Always rifling his erotic armory for ways to light Leia up, but also he strove to make her smile, laugh, get that thoughtful look, touch his face and kiss him, say she loved him.

That was the best, when Leia said his name and that she loved him. And suddenly Han couldn't seem to stop talking, either, though he'd never been vocal in bed before. Words had never come to Han then, with other women; even at the end, he'd only ever really bit his lip, held his breath. Oh, it had been good, sure, to hit the height, but Han had certainly never lost himself to the point he had to express what he was feeling. And now, with Leia, he couldn't shut up. He couldn't suppress his exclamations. Now, Han growled his intentions; groaned hot encouragements, his appreciation of how she felt or moved or looked or tasted. Gasped obscenities, sometimes, into the sweet crook of her neck. Rapt affirmations as she cried out in release. At work Han counted the hours until he could pick Leia up from the paper and kiss her face near-off in the truck, mumbling _Oh Sweetheart I want you so much_. His voice low, almost rueful, face tucked all bashful into her hair. How he thrilled to feel her stroke his cheek, hear her sigh back _Han, I missed you, stop talking, kiss me._

At the newspaper, Leia was more outwardly composed—always she would have more natural political sense, more perception of herself from the outside, than her husband did—but she was altered, too. She had a new pulse that moved her even sitting at her desk, that set her words down to a secret beat. Her work was suddenly alive, it could speak, it had form and shape and spark. And Leia found herself with fresh insight into the romantic announcements she wrote, the engagements and marriages, wedding recaps and honeymoon destinations, understanding now the private freight of feeling, of knowledge, that formed the foundation of every marriage, good or bad. Smiling, Leia bit her thumb as she read, sometimes, to wonder what the socially acceptable details concealed about any given couple. Because Leia could describe Han Solo, in print, as her husband—as tall, as handsome, as an airplane mechanic, as a veteran—and still only she would know the vulnerable arch of his back when he was below her. Only she would know the ways Han used his body, by turns contemplative, worshipful, greedy, comical, persuasive, joyful. In bed, yes, and outside of bed—from the hammock Leia liked to watch him in the clearing, splitting firewood. There was a rhythm to his work, the swing of the axe, the twist of his torso, an impact he absorbed in his heels and wrists. As he worked an ease overtook Han, his restless tendencies smoothed by exertion, that reminded her of how he was in the soft, breathless moments in her arms, just after he came. Leia saw Han craved kinetic effort; how he needed his tremendous energy to be made measurable, worthwhile. How he trusted only the reliable abilities of his body. Han was like a good utility knife, Leia thought: sleek, tempered, honed and boundlessly resourceful.

But none of this was what one said around the water cooler, was it, to the curious girls from the typing pool? Leia kept to herself at work, turning in impeccable and lively copy that impressed Mon Mothma but not speaking much. She knew that the girls were gossiping, now, about her and Han, her and Theo, the race; rooms fell into laden hush when she entered. Han and Leia weren't hiding their relationship, though word hadn't yet gotten around that Leia was actually married. She was forced, whenever she wanted to use the microfiche data, to engage with Cecil, Mon's insufferably pedantic assistant, but he was a fussy, apricot-tinged man who didn't seem to understand romantic sentiment. Everyone else was curious. Theo Isolder hadn't been seen in a while, he was apparently out of town with his mother, and it was tempting for Leia to tell herself that she and Han were safely lost together, that no one could reach them, track them, affect them: that they were lost together in space.

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Leia and Han were feeling rich. They'd just gotten paid at the same time, and her money from her parents' estate had been released. It was early on a Saturday morning; Leia had woken first, and was lying on her side, spooned into Han, reading through a pile of letters seeking etiquette advice when a broad hand stole to groping life against her torso. Leia gave a scolding rustle of paper. Han leaned over her shoulder, squinting sleepily at the letter, then pressed close behind her in a way that left no doubt about his eagerness for her work to be over. "Lemme help, Princess," Han muttered, against her spine. "Then you'll be done faster."

"Why sure, Flyboy." Leia's tone was indulgent. "This woman is having a conflict with her neighbor about her flowers." She put on Han's growling voice. "Ahhh, hit 'em with a wrench."

"Oh, that's me?" Han asked, as his fingers wandered. Leia shivered, but nodded, her flushed face sweetly mulish. "Okay, then, Sweetheart. Here's you." He spoke in his own morning voice, rough and husky, into her neck. "Dear Reader, I was about to answer your goofy-ass question but then my husband said something like _God, Leia, you make me so fuckin' crazy..._ or maybe he recited some Shakespeare, I don't remember." She giggled; he stroked the crease behind Leia's knee. "And I was _shocked,_ I tell you, Reader, shocked to find that I'd married such a...a _scoundrel,_ " Han murmured, feeling her quiver with repressed laughter and then a restrained sigh as his hand trailed up her inner thigh. When he raised an eyebrow at her, biting softly on her earlobe, Leia elaborately rolled her eyes, looking back at the letter—though blankly, Han saw, and with a catch to her breathing.

"Yeah, yeah," Han said fondly. "Roll them doe eyes while you can, Sweetheart—" Leia gave a squeak of thrilled surprise as he hitched one of her slender legs back over his hip. "'Cause I'm about to roll 'em straight back in your pretty little head."

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They often spent mornings off together, wrapped up in each other. And sweet afternoons, too, dreamy and long, in that high upstairs bed, in squares of sun or listening to rain rattle on the roof he'd made. But this morning, for the first time, they were lazy, playful. A lightheartedness took them, the loft ringing with laughter, with vocal, loving inventory—the chicken-pox mark next to Leia's navel, Han's absurdly long toes—as though they were growing surer of one another, safer.

Hesitantly, hopefully, Han asked her when she'd started to really like him— _y'know, Princess, like_ _ **that**_ _._ And it seemed to Leia she always had—trailing her fingers over his scar she told Han she'd found him handsome the moment they met, which obviously pleased him—but consciously wanted him? She'd had to stop to think of the specific moment.

Finally she said it had been in the parking lot of Chewie's diner, only the first week she'd been back from Starwood. Han had strutted towards her in insolent advance, shaking his preposterous head of hair in dismissal of something she'd said that was none of his business in the first place, when his boot skidded on a patch of oil. His mouth and eyes popped wide and round but Han didn't go down; those long limbs flung out as he executed a sudden, flexing leap, landing him true and clean on the ball of one foot. He'd looked straight at her. She'd expected the strut to resume, then, at least a mocking bow in her direction, some comment about a royal command performance. But instead Han laughed in disbelief. Laughed so openly and happily into her stare that Leia had had to laugh back. Something in his gangly grace, his satisfaction with his body's response, had disarmed her, intrigued her.

This memory had beguiled and unsettled Leia more than the swagger that the other girls sighed over. The way Han had looked to her and laughed, it was as though it was all for her—his natural athleticism, adaptability, sense of fun, his ingeniousness, considerable beauty, his defiance of little things like the law of gravity—he was all for her. As though the whole routine had been an invitation, a mating dance. As though Han had made of himself an offering, to her. And that was when she knew, Leia said, that she wanted to share his marvellous body, too. Han was so silent, then, that Leia worried that perhaps she'd offended him, or come up short against some expectation, but then he drew her close and kissed her for a long while, then tucked her head under his chin until they slept again.

XXXXXXXXXX

It was noon by the time they curled together drinking coffee and sharing a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon and toast, surprisingly good—Han was getting proficient with the big cast-iron pan he'd found in the stove's drawer. "I ain't ever gonna be beat by somethin' I know I can get," he said, with a careless shrug, kissing a smear of jam from her thumb, when Leia complimented him on his quick learning curve.

As he chewed, Han couldn't stop crowing about his paycheck, six bucks an hour was absolute riches—"and that's just to start, Sweetheart, I got no ticket, but wait'll I get my journeyman scrip, I'm gonna buy you the biggest ring you ever saw, and then—"

Leia looked at her tiny fingers. She didn't even wear a wedding band. "I don't need some huge ring, Han," she said, doubtfully.

For a moment, Leia thought Han looked hurt, but the knit brow vanished almost at once, so fast that it seemed impossible to address. He swigged the last of the milk from the bottle, tossed away the last crust of toast. "Well I wanna—I dunno, celebrate. C'mon, Princess, get your little..." Affectionately, impatiently, he tapped her rump, then unfolded his long frame from bed, grinning shameless and naked down at her. "Let's go throw around some cash."


	39. Chapter 39

There was a furniture showroom halfway between New Hope and Mantell. Lando had just got a dining room set there—teak, Lando had bragged, seating eight. "Guy thinks he's gonna be givin' dinner parties to investors," Han scoffed, as he drove. For a moment he frowned at a small jerking drag when he shifted gears, then wagged a finger. "You watch, Lando'll get Chewie to do all the cooking, and he'll say he did it himself. Say he roasted a duck in some three-piece suit..." But Han was in such a good mood that even his carping was ebullient.

Strolling through the cavernous space, watching Leia exclaim over the shapely pastel lounge suites, Han grinned. He jauntily tossed his keys in the air and caught them, again and again. A salesman—in his own three-piece suit—glanced over, scanned the pair, then went back to schmoozing a well-dressed man eyeing a dinette set.

"Which one d'you like, Princess?"

Leia tapped a finger against her lip. "Well, it's really more you than me who decides, because I'll fit on them all, and you—"

Han had already draped himself on a lilac settee. He scowled and sprang immediately up. "What the hell'd they make _that_ out of, tank shells?" Crouching down, Han checked out the lines of the thing. "This one's junk," he said, briskly.

The salesman sent over a look. Arms around shoulder and waist in their customary way, Han and Leia wandered the small city of seats and lamps and appliances and beds, televisions and radios set into ornate, carved frames.

"What is Bolta-Flex?" Leia whispered into Han's ribs, pointing at a steel table with that label.

"I dunno," Han muttered, "Sounds like this guy from 'round the docks I'd like to never see again."

At a slick, slippery sectional, Leia smothered a laugh. "Oooh, plastic Palomino?"

"Only real Palomino for _my_ girl."

Leia giggled, then chewed at a thumbnail. "...what about a bed?"

Han leered down at her. "What _about_ a bed?"

Leia looked at the ceiling as though for patience, but she was smiling. "Do you like the bed at home?"

"No." Han kissed her forehead. _Home._ His eyes were bright and playful and loving. "I _love_ the bed at home. Among other surfaces."

" _Han._ I do, too, but..."

Han relented. "No, I really do. It's still real firm, and that iron frame is solid. I don't want some pressboard..." He knocked his knuckles against the wooden headboard of a double bed, and grimaced. "...bullshit bed for..." He peered at the tag. " _Seventy bucks?_ "

The salesman's eye swept over him again like a prison searchlight.

Leia's eyes lit up. She moved from under Han's arm to a modest, simple three-seat sofa, as pale yellow and soft-textured as a baby chick. Nestling into it, she looked hopefully up at Han. "What about this one?"

Han cocked his head. It was simple, clean, no extra fabric or fussy Lando crap. It looked long enough for his legs. He sat beside his bride, patting his chest. She rested her head there the way she did in the evenings they spent reading in the jumble of blankets and pillows on the living room floor. Han opened his arms to their full wingspan along the back of the couch, luxuriantly crossed his ankles. "Y'know, Sweetheart, this could wor—"

The salesman appeared at their side. It was almost as though he'd timed it to be when Han and Leia were sitting, Han thought sourly, as a power tactic. Leia noticed this, too: Han could tell by the way she stood, immediate but unhurried, flared skirt swishing gracefully as she rose, poised, on her high heels. How did she _do_ that, make her tiny frame so dominant? Han marvelled, looking up at her extending her hand to the salesman, who introduced himself as Albert. The guy may as well have had Valentine hearts for eyes, Han thought, the way he looked at Leia, so pretty and soft in her fluffy coral sweater. Meanwhile, Leia asked a number of intelligent questions: about warranty, tensile strength, springs, threads, resilience. _That girl and her research,_ Han thought, wondering about the Valentine hearts in his own eyes.

Han got to his feet and hoisted the couch, gauging the frame, the springs. Real hardwood, soaked and shaped. Fitted pretty slick. Albert answered Leia's questions at length, studying her with new respect. Leia listened, then nodded, and looked at Han. "Yeah, looks like a good couch," Han announced.

"Yes, it's a wonderful _sofa_ ," Albert said. He gave pretty, dainty Leia a bemused, almost conspiratorial look, as though they were privy to some lexicon Han obviously wasn't. Leia frowned. Han narrowed his eyes, setting the couch back to the floor with a tidy thump. The salesman's eyes flicked to Han's hands—the callouses, the knuckles always slightly etched with engine grease, no matter how he scrubbed his skin with Snap grit soap."We have an excellent layaway program."

Lazily assuming his full height, Han flashed Albert a speculative half-grin. "Now why wouldja think..."

Albert smiled tolerantly. "It's merely a suggestion."

Han slapped a stack of bills on the back of the couch.

"Naaaah. We don't just want the sitty-thing, see," Han said, speaking with a hickishness so exaggerated it dripped with scorn. "I want me one'a them slishy-sloshy machines that washes your threads real good? There's a name for it...don't tell me..." He tapped his temple, then shrugged. "Well, anyway. Throw in a sock-cooker, too."

Leia's chest almost burst from her choked-back laugh; she coughed delicately into her handkerchief, noting that Albert was purple, but was no longer patronizing Han Solo. Smiling with steely sweetness, Leia seized the moment and resumed negotiation. By the end a terrified Albert had dropped the washer and dryer for half-price, waived the delivery fee, and agreed to have the couch and appliances delivered that evening.

At the door, Han snapped his fingers. "Ah, I remembered the word, Sweetheart. It ain't _sofa_ , or _dryer_." He waved goodbye at Albert. "The word is _money._ "


	40. Chapter 40

Leia sat on the new couch, a mug of cocoa in her hands. It was raining; when Han came in from outside, his body curved over a wooden fruit crate, he was wet. Han had thrown all of their pillows and blankets on the couch—he was attached to that nest, he said—and from this warm bundle Leia watched him, curious about the last of his stuff that he was importing from the Falcon. This final transplantation made their marriage feel oddly, suddenly real, definitive in a way a signature on paper hadn't.

"Poor girl," Han said, wistful, as he bumped the front door shut with a boot. "Kinda hate to leave her all alone."

"She'll be okay," Leia said, enjoying his characteristic personalization of machinery. "She'll have Millie. And Luke will stay there when he's back for Christmas."

Han brightened, then chewed his cheek. "Yeah, maybe Millie'll tell ol' Echo Three what's wrong." Han had delved into Millie's transmission, but hadn't yet found the nagging problem. He'd take her inside the hangar, he figured, work on her there, now that it was into October and the weather was getting harsher. Maybe ask the journeymen.

Sitting the crate down on the floor with a thump, Han toed off his boots and sank into the couch, burrowing into the nest, tucking Leia under his arm. Curiously, Leia glanced at the contents of the box: docker's peacoat, watch cap, gloves, scarf. They smelled pleasantly of saltwater and machine oil. Dogtags. Records. A wide manila envelope, unevenly filled, as though with photographs. Leia realized, all at once, that all of her own family pictures were gone forever. This feeling, so cruel and sudden in the midst of warmth and comfort, was like stepping into a sudden cold pocket in the lake. Leia closed her eyes a moment, against the sick chill. Would she forever be stumbling into hidden grief?

The nightmares had almost gone away, since Han. The fire, the Isolders. Starwood. Anakin Skywalker. Bound up in Han, Leia felt safe. She could finally deeply sleep. It was as though the reality of him, even unconscious—his length, breadth, his breath on her neck, even the wiry hair on his chest—was so solid and stubborn that it defied all horrible abstractions, shielded Leia from awful visions.

She extended her hand to the envelope. "Do you mind?"

Han shrugged, eyes on a Cessna manual, lips in his mug. Leia couldn't make coffee, but her cocoa was fuckin' great. That was a direct quote, and had made her beam.

Leia spilled a small stack of pictures into her blanketed lap. In the first, two soldiers leaned back against a tank. Leia placed Chewie at once, even clean-shaven and with his hair cut regulation length; his bulk was unmistakable, and so was his toothy grin. The young man beside him was squinting, smoking, in an olive-drab undershirt, khaki pants and dogtags. It took Leia a moment to recognize her husband, and even then it wasn't Han's face that she knew—undeniably handsome, but there was a cool hardness there she'd never seen before, that had confused her eye, and he wasn't himself without his unruly hair. No, what Leia knew was Han's body: its insolent drape, the skeptical, self-protective way he crossed his arms across his chest, crossed his long legs at the ankles.

Han glanced down at the picture. "That's me and the Chew, there, with a Sherman."

"You smoked?" Leia asked.

"Yeah, only for a bit. Couldn't afford it, in the home, but in the army smoking's cheap and passes the time, stakes to play cards for, besides. The reason I quit?" Han chuckled. "Well, Chewie never liked the habit. Says it's disrespectful to the purity of the body, or some bullshit, and he bet me a month of KP duty that I couldn't cut 'em out. So I did, on the spot. Missed 'em a little, at first, but man, I hated scrubbin' them dirty pots more than I ever dug that first drag. Never bothered goin' back—better things to spend money on."

Leia raised an eyebrow at the mint-green washer and dryer pushed up against the wall, waiting for Han to hook them up in the enclosed back porch.

"Exactly." Han said. Leia smiled to see his obvious relish—she'd never have expected the brash, prickly young man from Starwood to take such pleasure in domestic equipment. Still, they were more machinery—she wondered, wryly, how long it would take before Han assigned the appliances names and genders. Leia looked back at the picture. "Do you like tanks like you like trucks and planes?"

Han recoiled. "Jesus, no, Princess. Tanks are clunky fuckin' wrecks, good for nothin' but—" He glanced swiftly at her, then away. "I mean, you can't steer 'em, there's no handling, you gotta execute a goddamn five-point star if you wanna turn the thing around."

"No freedom," Leia said, softly.

"Yeah," Han said, mulling the thought. "Yeah, that's it, I guess." He shrugged, picked up another picture. "That's us on r&r. Me and Lando!" Han laughed. "Check out his popped collar. Poker—that's the night I won Millie. Shoulda seen his face when I laid out that royal flush." Han smiled, then looked philosophical. "'Course, he kept his word, y'know. We got demobbed and I figured, there's no way in hell he's gonna gimme his wheels. Guys talked big over there. But Lando meant it. Handed the keys right over when we got back to Baltimore." Han grinned. "I felt kinda bad droppin' him off at the Greyhound station for his trip out to Chewie, here to New Hope, but hell, a bet's a bet. Stand-up guy."

"How did Chewie hear of New Hope?" Leia asked.

Han rubbed at his jaw, his grin fading. Leia found she enjoyed the rasping sound in a strange, near-primitive way. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"Try me," Leia said, steadily.

"We saw it in the movies."

Leia stared.

"See, sometimes the brass would screen a flick for us in the canteen. And before the movie proper began, there was always a newsreel. Little stories about small towns back home. We watched lots of those: y'know—" Han put on a deep, corny announcer's voice—"'What you're fighting for, boys! Mom and Pop, apple pie.' Mostly we ignored 'em, threw popcorn around. But this one time, the small town was New Hope. Downtown, right? The countryside. Shot in fall, pretty spectacular, right? Out here, the woods, all red and gold. The lake." Han paused, shot Leia a watchful look. "They interviewed a man, on your dock. He was almost...religious about the place. Dark-haired guy, olive-skinned, real distinguished-like. I think he might have been your, uh, father?"

Leia swallowed around the mingled pain and happiness suddenly obstructing her throat. "Papa was like that," she finally managed, in a small, choked voice. "He was...zealous about Alder Glen."

"Well, he sure converted Chewie, Sweetheart. When he saw that lake, the trees, Chewie leaned over to me and said, clear as a bell, 'That's where I'll live.' And when we got back Stateside, he saved some money up for the diner and that's what he did. He said there was something out here, that called him. Something good—in the land, the water, the woods." Han looked off through the window into the rainy night. "Who knows, with Chewie? He does what he does."

Han glanced at Leia. His half-grin died when he saw Leia's eyes had filled with tears.

"Aw, Sweetheart," Han murmured, swiping at her cheek with a thumb. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you cr—"

"No, it's all right," Leia said. "I love to hear that—that Chewie felt called here. I feel it too." She looked up at him, her huge eyes burning into his. "It's a pull. It's a demand. It's hard to explain."

Han's gaze darkened on her face. "I understand."

For a long moment Leia stared back, trying to decipher his intense, enigmatic expression. Finally she asked, "You do? From the film?"

The moment broke. "Naaaah," Han said, grinning slyly at her. "I thought Chewie was nuts."

Wiping her eyes, Leia laughed into the heavy cuff of her father's sweater.

"I _did_. I was sure the fuzzball had lost it. I'm from the city: the country was the sticks, the end of the world. A'course," Han said, and tightened his arm around her, "If _you'd_ been in the film... if it was you, showin' off the lake—"

Leia giggled, struggling against him as he lightly tickled her ribs.

"Lecturin' with all your facts...maybe in some _clever_ little bikini you picked out yourself..."

Slapping at his arm, Leia blushed, pleased, as his tickling turned to caress—not sexual, but soothing.

"...I woulda got here a lot sooner. I woulda deserted! The next day, Princess."

"Han. Do you really like it here?" Han gaped at her, almost indignant; he brandished that finger to gesture inarticulately between themselves, at their new couch, then swept his entire long arm to incorporate the cabinets, the stairs, _upstairs,_ the jukebox that they hadn't given back yet, Sam Cooke singing "Bring It On Home to Me." Their accumulating intimate evidence. Laughing softly at his spluttering, Leia shook her head. "I mean, independent of _me_. Independent of _this_."

Dropping his arm of outrage, Han looked thoughtful. "Yeah. It's a... _good_ place." He glanced almost furtively at the next picture in the slim stack and closed his eyes, as though into casual rest.

Leia looked down at the photograph. In it, a toddler was clasped in the arms of a slight, pretty but tired-looking woman, standing outside a dilapidated urban tenement. The woman was small; the leggy child was almost half as long as she was. The pair were looking at one another, speaking, smiling, and Leia smiled too to recognize a distinct lopsided slant to the babyish mouth. She half-expected to see a miniature scar on the tiny chin. "Oh." Her heart felt caught in a cramping vise. " _You._ "

Han slitted one eye. "Yeah."

"Is she your—your—"

Han said, "Tuberculosis went through the tennies real bad, that year. Dunno how I didn't get it." He shrugged and laced his fingers over his flat middle as though discussing the weather, sealing his eyes again. Leia looked at Han a long time, but he kept his expression smooth and closed—if Leia didn't know Han so well, she'd have said he was serene.

"What was her name?" Leia gently probed.

He opened his eyes and gave a brief sigh, shifting just slightly in an emotional discomfort she knew he was shaping into irritation. "Jaina? I guess." Han caught the photograph between his long fingers and flipped it carelessly over, showing her the inked reverse: _Jaina & her Han. 3_ _rd_ _birthday: July 9 1935._ "She died that October. Dunno who took the picture; story went that the landlord pinned it to my clothes, when he dumped me off at the Home. I guess I owe the guy one; not every kid there knew when he was born." Stubbornly, Han resumed his faked relaxation.

Leia looked again at the little boy, at his intelligent, mischievous, earnest face. She wondered what he was saying, and ached that there was no one to ask. Ached for the big man beside her: that he had been there, and so carried that knowledge somewhere, recorded but inaccessible.

As if he could read her mind, Han made an impatient sound. "Ah, cut it out, Your Highnessness," Han yawned, patting her knee. His voice was light, his gesture affectionate, but she sensed rebuke. Leia looked sharply at him, just in time to catch his eyes peripherally fixed on her. Caught, he squeezed them shut.

"Cut what out?"

"Feelin' sorry for me, huh?" Now he looked frankly at her. "You're an orphan, too."

Leia opened her mouth, closed it. She felt somehow defensive. "Yes. But I had my parents for nineteen years first. You were just a baby."

Han twitched a dismissive shoulder. "So was Luke."

"Luke had my parents, too, in many ways. And Luke had me. Ben. We grew up playing with Wedge and Wes and Shara. Luke had—Luke had real love, all his life." Han looked at the ceiling, still strung with tiny wedding lights, and Leia felt him tense. "Do you remember your mother?" Leia asked.

Cocking his eyebrow, Han looked at Leia with a practiced dry amusement that morphed into a plea for mercy when she did not give. She regarded him with loving doggedness, sipping her cocoa, until he huffed in surrender. "...no? Maybe. Aaaaah..." Han frowned and closed his eyes again, but in honest concentration, now, not staged indifference. "She's more a feeling than a memory. Y'know how a dream is, you know it but you can't..." He cleared his throat. "Safe, I guess, is the best I can say it." He opened his eyes; Leia watched them harden from yearning sea to flinty gray. "Never knew my father. Nothin' about him, even. Probably some sailor." Han threw Leia a sharp, heedless grin that she refused to endorse, squeezing his hand instead until he softened again. "But. I guess he must'a been tall, like me, 'cause you can see here my mother was a tiny little thing. Like you." For just a second, Leia saw Han caress his mother's face with the tip of a finger. Then, with a slamming down of walls Leia could almost feel, Han shook his head, brusquely collecting the photographs from her lap and stuffing them back into the envelope, tossing it at the apple box. "Hell. It's crazy to have kids. Never understood it. You have 'em, you bring 'em into this messed-up world and leave 'em."

"Oh, Han." Leia said, gently, reaching out to stroke his face. "Jaina didn't mean to _leave_ you, not any more than my parents left me, or Padmé left Luke. That's no reason to not want children."

Han laughed shortly, evading her touch. He'd reverted to unreachable. "Sure, it wasn't _their_ fault they died. But who cares what they meant: it was still all fucked up. I went into the home. Luke got throttled. Shit! _You_ almost got married off."

It stung so much Leia caught her breath.

"So you don't need to be pityin' me, Princess," Han added, and for the first time in months, certainly the first time since they'd been involved, Han inflected that nickname with a kind of edge. And Leia couldn't stand it, not now that things had changed, not now that he'd breathed that endearment when he was inside her. She shoved the blankets onto his lap, shedding their cozy mess and taking her feet abruptly enough that Han sat straight up.

Han held up his palms, standing slowly. "Alright," he said. "Alright, alright, alright, I—"

"I don't pity you, Han," Leia said, with clipped anger. "I don't pity myself, either, or Luke, or anyone else. I _care_ about you. I care about what made you you. I'll admit to some curiosity, but it is _not_ pity. There's a difference between pity and empathy, and if they feel the same to you, if you don't know that, then you need—"

Han's eyebrows shot up; he leaned down to Leia in a crowding way that she remembered, but had also forgotten. "I need to _what?_ Is this about kids, now? If you want to have kids, Leia, I'd appreciate you sayin' so up front, right now, without all this headshrinker talk about—"

"It's not about children, Han!" Leia snapped, then growled in frustration, accustomed to expressing herself with more fluency. "It's not _not_ about children, either! It's about avoiding—" Leia shook her head, but what came out of her mouth was: "I don't know. Maybe I do! So what?"

"Where in the _hell_ is this coming from?" Han looked wildly around the room, as though some sort of terrifying female reproductive pheromone were issuing from the walls. "When Shara got kno—y'know, you were freaked out, too!"

"I don't mean _now_ ," Leia hurled back. "Of course not now!"

Han snarled, pointing viciously at himself, "World's already too full'a kids, Sweetheart, take it from the _tragic pitiful—_ "

"Han Solo! I do not. _Fucking._ Pity you!" Leia yelled.

Han drew back, his eyes huge with almost comical shock.

Leia thrust up her chin, stepping in to him. "I said _maybe_. Han, I said _someday_! I might mean never! But I'd like it to be something a married couple can talk about!"

Han opened his mouth, then seemed to hear what she was saying. _Someday._ _We. Married._ He sighed, the tense energy around him slackening slightly.

"You're right. Alright. We can talk about it but—" He put a hand through his hair. "Tell you the bald truth, Princess, I can't imagine bein' a father, and I'm not sure I wanna try. Parents fail, Leia. All of 'em." Han met Leia's eyes, his expression opening into a new, beseeching darkness that was just a shade closer to—yet still a shade off from—complete trust. "I just wanna not fail _you_."

She looked back. They held one another's gaze until, finally, Han sat back on the couch, rubbing at the back of his neck. "Hell. Maybe I _do_ miss smoking."

Leia smiled a little, then, and sat next to him. "I'm not sure I want children either. I'm not even twenty."

Han gave her a tight smile back.

"I'm glad you were born," she added, softly.

After a long while Han offered her another smile—small, but real this time, reaching his eyes. "Thanks, Sweetheart." For another long time he was quiet, staring into the fire. "I'll tell you what: I wouldn't have always agreed with that. But I mean, I mean..." he trailed off, then gathered her up and settled her into his lap, wrapping them up again in the woollen cocoon. Han kissed her—in his touch was apology, and also warmth, ardor. "It's hard to regret anything right about now. About anything. If I'm here."

Relentlessly he kissed Leia's face, her eyelids, her cheeks, her neck, her mouth until she sighed into his kisses, and kissed him back.

"What was the movie?" Leia finally whispered.

"Huh?"

"The movie that ran with the New Hope newsreel."

Han's lip quirked. "Uh. _Gentlemen Prefer Blondes_."

Leia gave a long delighted laugh. "I'm not a blonde."

Gently Han tugged Leia's long brown braid, his smile full of affection and mischief, and drew her closer. "C'mere. C'mere. _I'm_ not a gentleman."


	41. Chapter 41

Author's Note: Ugh, sorry for delay. I offer you this fluffy smut angst token of my affection and appreciation for any of you lovely people still hanging in with me. I promise the next update will come sooner; there's a significant bit to go yet in my long-running soap, but it has a pretty clear trajectory from here until the end.

Thanks again, everyone. Your reviews and interest have been transformational and wonderful to me.

Xo!

XXXXXXXXXX

Han waited to ask until he pulled Millie to the curb outside the _Gazette._ Leia had noticed he was jittery on the drive: fussing with the radio, tapping his fingers out of rhythm on the steering wheel. Opening his mouth to speak, then closing it. Han had been odd over breakfast too, cutting his eyes at Leia then looking away, and not in the flirtatious way he did just before backing her with kisses against the kitchen counter or softly wrestling her, as she laughed, onto their new couch. All morning he'd seemed both impelled and resistant to talk.

"So. Hey," Han began. "There's this thing in Mantell. Overnight with Doc, the guys." His voice was determinedly casual, even upbeat, but Leia heard the thread of diffidence. "Puttin' us up in the...uh, Atomic?" He frowned. "Comet?...no, anyway, some fancy new—"

"The Orbit?" Leia asked.

" _Orbit_." Han snapped his fingers. "That's it." He smiled fondly at her. "Shoulda known you'd get it."

Leia smiled tightly back. It wasn't Han going on a boys' trip that troubled her; she was thrilled that Han had settled quickly and soundly into his new job. She loved to see him proud and energized when he picked her up in the evenings, telling her all the things he'd learned, stories from his day, pleased to hear hers. Han's always definitive masculinity had shed some of its combative edge as it found such gratifying outlets—in her, in work. But Leia felt an odd hurt that Han seemed so leery of her reaction to his plans. Her pride chafed at the notion that Han felt he had to ask her for permission! Like she was some hassling wife who'd try to get in the way of his good time. His tentative approach also awoke, in Leia, a dormant fear: could Han still... _leave?_ Eventually? She knew he loved her, he said he loved her, she could feel in the way he touched her that he did—but Leia also knew Han had dreams, knew how he felt about his freedom, an idea underscored by his recent negative response to potential children. They were half-way through October, nearly a month into their marriage, Han remained insatiably interested in her, lusty and thoughtful and affectionate; Leia didn't believe he'd _intend_ to leave her, but—but, living at Alder Glen was quiet. Surely Han was used to more action. And of course they'd married so suddenly, and under duress...could the novelty of playing house with Leia wear off, for Han? Would he eventually see her as an albatross?

"Leavin' Friday morning. Back on Saturday sometime." Han grimaced. "I know, short notice, but—"

Today was Wednesday. Leia kept her voice even. "No, that's okay."

"Yeah?" His tone was hopeful.

"We did a feature on the Orbit last week, in the travel section. It's supposed to be wonderful. Lots to do." Leia pulled the door handle, swinging her knees towards the slightly open space. "You'll like it."

Han tilted his head, his forehead furrowing and lips parting in consternation. Before Leia could slip from the truck, he rested a hand just above the collar of her russet sweater. "Uh. Princess," Han said, his fingers gently drumming her shoulder until she turned back to him. "Just whaddaya think I'm gonna get up to, out there?"

Leia blinked at the soft amusement in his face. "...drinking, gambling? Shooting pool?"

"Well, yeah, that sounds pretty great." Han's grin flared. "You did say you wanted to learn nine-ball."

" _I_ wanted..." Leia put a hand to her temple. "Han, I'm confused."

"Sweetheart, it's not...look, some float-plane parts outfit booked the hotel to show off their 1957 upgrade series. Reserved all the suites for regional clients. Doc got four free rooms just handed to him. So he offered 'em to a few of us guys...and our, uhm." Han looked at the steering wheel, suddenly reticent. "Wives."

Both Han and Leia often felt self-conscious about referring to each other as "husband" and "wife," as though one of them would balk at the title, or laugh. Besides, the true legal status of their relationship still wasn't open information. Their friends knew; Priscilla too, and some of the staff at Cloud City. Han's boss knew he was married, but Doc had no idea to whom or how it had all happened.

Ben knew, of course. Leia had brought Han to Ben's tiny cabin—more a shack, Han thought— to introduce the two. She hadn't explained the machinations and pressures behind her sudden choice to wed; Ben, as a bohemian artist, was content to believe that Leia had simply acted out of emotional impulse for once—she had finally trusted her feelings, he'd said, approvingly, as he embraced her in congratulations. Then the frail man had returned to his easel to work in near-silence, occasionally offering airy, oblique observations that Han found impossible to address. Soon Han, feeling restless and enclosed and—and weirdly _studied_ even though the old man never seemed to really _look_ at him, began to fidget with the only door. It had swelled in years of lake air and didn't properly close, leaving the temperature in the cabin noticeably chilled. Leaving Leia to visit, Han jogged down the hill to his workshop, got his hand drill and plane, then ran hard back. Over the course of the afternoon he took the door down, shaved it clean and level, and re-suspended it. Ben seemed bemused by the nerves Han had blunted in his exercise, the discomfort Han believed he was politely concealing in utility, though he thanked Han warmly when the door swung snugly shut. The artist had given Han an unexpectedly strong handshake as the young pair left, his faded blue eyes twinkling and savvy.

Han and Leia weren't hiding the truth, exactly; they did stroll down Main Street in one another's arms. In private they were emphatically close in all ways, and growing still closer by the day. Yet this aversion to advertising themselves as any other newlywed couple persisted. Leia told herself that this was because formal acknowledgement was unnecessary, that she and Han knew what they were; but underneath this remained her desperate, unconscious urge to protect Han from Erin Isolder. Leia knew that the only reason the older woman had been so quiet was that she'd thought the race a mere, juvenile trifle, despite its importance to her son. But when the truth was out—when the full depth of Leia's union with Han, of Leia's rebellion, was made clear—Erin would retaliate as though to an act of war.

Han followed what he believed was Leia's lead. He'd cooled it a bit with the "missus" stuff after she'd said she didn't want him to buy her a ring. If he was honest, that had stung—if it was up to Han, he'd take out an ad in Leia's newspaper that they were married. Have it written in his sky. Her refusal had reminded him of the uneasy fact that marriage—even _their_ marriage, no matter how astonishing and joyful Han found it and believed Leia found it, too—had been imposed upon his bride.

Han tried not to think about the queasy implications of that.

For now Han stole a glance at Leia across Millie's bench seat, his eyes a dense, shielded gray-green. She looked directly back. He broke the look, waving an easy hand.

"Hey, it's no big deal if you don't wanna go, Leia. I gotta be at the show all Friday afternoon anyway, and then there's some damn party that night, you'd probably be, uh." She still didn't answer. He rubbed at the back of his neck. "I just. I got this free room, and I was thinkin' we could..." Han bit his tongue before he said _honeymoon_. "I mean, it's only a night in Mantell. Y'know what, forg—"

" _Han._ " Leia said, sliding across the fissured leather to touch his scarred jaw, her expression moved and lively. "I'd love to go with you."

One corner of Han's mouth inched up. "You won't be too bored when I'm at the—"

"No! There's a wonderful bookstore my father used to take me to. And I can shop for Christmas presents, my mother did that in Mantell." Leia gave him a private, festive smile. "I like having a reason to wear that party dress you bought for me."

"...do you now." Eyes darkening, Han pulled Leia close, looking speculatively down his nose at her. Leia held her face up to his, almost brushing his nose with hers, a deceptively demure curve to her red lips.

She mused, teasingly, as though to herself, "Of course, that party dress is strapless. I'd need to get the right things for under it."

Han raised his eyebrows, then gave an appreciative growl. Softly, Leia laughed at the happy absurdity that Han had seen her thoroughly naked on a near-daily basis for almost a month straight, yet was titillated by the thought of her in her underthings. Or perhaps, Leia thought, now that she had intimate insight into him, it was the notion of her choosing those underthings, of inviting his gaze onto her in them, that appealed to Han.

"We could get fancy room service," Leia murmured, as Han closed in.

"Why, so we could, Princess. So we could," Han said, and kissed her.

Unable to help herself, thrilled by his fervor and touched by his earnest plans, Leia kissed Han back much more deeply and demonstrably than she normally did in public, let alone when idling outside her workplace.

Approaching the _Gazette_ 's main doors, Esther Howard took startled, then careful, notice. Like everyone else in New Hope, she knew Theo Isolder had lost the race to Solo and Skywalker. She knew Erin Isolder was angered by Leia's involvement, though insistent that the wedding to Theo was still on, that Leia wouldn't dare buck that. But Erin and her son had been out of town until just this week, and the canny gossip columnist often saw Han Solo waiting in the evenings outside the _Gazette_ , rangy body leaned against his old truck, managing to look both cocky and eager as he scanned the departing staff for a particular petite brunette. Esther figured the rough-hewn Solo had a doomed crush, fated to go nowhere with Leia Organa, who was a prudish, scholarly type. But now, seeing Solo's big hands frame Leia's face as the two hungrily kissed—then one of those hands gliding down her back, vanishing from sight under the windshield, as though below some symbolic waist—Esther guessed that if Theo Isolder's fiancee wasn't, ahem, damaged goods quite yet, she would be soon enough.

She wondered how much Erin Isolder would pay to hear _this_.

XXXXXXXXXX

Han stood in the open balcony doorway, stretched to his full length, hands braced against the overhead sliding bracket. He was enjoying at the sight of his wife, so pretty in her new blue mohair sweater-dress, primly buttoned and belted at her trim middle, bouncing on her knees on the gigantic bed. Han couldn't tell if this Leia was mostly loveable, or funny, or sexy, then decided she was all those things at once.

Leia swept her palms over the tufted coverlet; cool silver silk, in keeping with the futuristic look of the Orbit Hotel. The theme had been set right from the stainless steel chandelier that dominated the lobby: huge, spiky and globed, the thing was like a satellite. Han glanced at the starburst clock on the wall above the electric fireplace, long points radiating from the face. Already noon. The parts show started at one, in the main convention room—and what would _that_ setup be like, Han wondered, the dark side of the moon?

Still, Han liked this place, if only because its luxurious kitsch so delighted Leia. When they got to their room she'd flitted about exclaiming over the huge half-moon bath, missile-shaped lamps, midnight-blue walls and ceiling, cloud-white rug. Everything said expensive science fiction: the chaise upholstered in glittery metallic fabric; the soaps shaped like stars and crescents. Here on the balcony, the autumn mums and evergreens were potted in aluminum pods. Even the huge television, with its gilt knobs and dials, seemed like the controls to some fanciful spaceship.

To see his brilliant, ambitious wife abandon herself to giddiness made Han grin so widely it crinkled his eyes. He would like to stay in this crazy room with Leia, lobbing jokes about making her see stars until she realized he wasn't joking at all, but he had to meet Doc and the guys to go over negotiation protocol. Doc and his journeymen often went to shows all over the region, and they weren't fazed by this high-end establishment—the Orb, they were already familiarly calling it—but Han felt jumpy. On the drive from New Hope, the nerves had been much worse. Leia hadn't pried about the tension she could surely feel, settled as she was under Han's arm and close against his side, the first place she ever rode in Millie, the place he loved to have her when he drove. Han had surprised himself by telling Leia the truth: his dread at having to erect a glib front against the, the... _gladhanding_ of a roomful of salesmen and executives, their goofy-mean joking, condescension, lackeys jockeying for position. _Like that jackass who sold us the furniture, Princess, remember?_ Han knew he was quick-tongued, could charm or strike at will, he knew how to hustle—God knew he'd done it before, was used to it, even—but this time Han felt edgy about it, angry. And he didn't know why.

When his speech ceased so suddenly it was like he'd had nothing to do with launching it, Han briefly worried Leia would think him weak, but she seemed to welcome his admission, squeezing his knee in thoughtful commiseration. Then she said, why not let his rare talent and work ethic do the talking?

Han rubbed his thumb over the fuzzy shoulder of Leia's sweater-dress in mute thanks for her faith in him. But. "...they won't _know_ what I'm good at," Han protested. "They've never seen me work."

"Who is _they?_ "

Han lifted his hand from Leia's shoulder, swivelling it at the wrist in a way that indicated armies of judgement too dense to enumerate.

"All right," Leia said, gently. "Why do these...theys...need to know what you're good at?"

"Because otherwise they'll think I'm—" Han closed his mouth as his critical mind caught up with his immediate defensive response.

"Think you're what?" She looked evenly at him, then, her face grave and lovely. God, Leia was relentless, but Han knew that; wasn't this why he'd told her this? To have his reactions subjected to her level cross-examination? Han opened his mouth again, but couldn't explain without using the voice of Corell Home— _scruffy scrappy charity case scamming my way into this great new life—_ and he'd resolved to never dirty Leia with anything from that place, that past.

Leia kept her eyes on Han. His face betrayed such unhappy effort that she knew he wasn't hiding behind his practiced recalcitrance. So Leia risked a further step: looking away out the window and keeping her voice light, as though her input was more philosophical than personal, she said that in a sense, to hustle was dishonest—a recourse for those who felt they weren't quite good enough. Of course people bristled at having to stage some defensive performance. But they didn't _have_ to, Leia finished, looking back at Han. People didn't have to _act_ like anything, when they were truly that good at what they did.

Han's grip tightened on her shoulder and then relaxed; he squinted as though into some hard, scouring light. She was right. Leia was exactly right: Han didn't need to bluff anyone into liking or respecting him. Not this time. Maybe never again. There was nothing to pretend: when it came to machinery, Han knew he was on his turf. He was the goddamn truth. He did not have to demean himself and his talent by grasping for masks.

He began to smile as he took the exit into Mantell. As Buddy Holly had said on the Kessell Run, Well...all right.

This new commitment to his bare-bones essence both charged and frightened Han as the minutes wound down to the show. For fortitude he looked again at Leia; even here, silly and playful on the bed, she remained herself, always authentic. And more than anything, Han ached to be Leia's man, not merely on paper, but in his actions. It was both comforting and terrifying to him to think that he need only be worthy of this one person.

Now he watched, eyes warm, as that very person sprawled heedlessly on her back, stretching her small frame with no hope of reaching the bed's borders. "Han! This is absurd. Four of you could sleep here at once."

Han glanced again at the clock. He had to leave to meet the guys in twenty minutes; more like ten, after a shower and change of clothes. Best keep his distance. Leia rolled to her belly and kicked her little stockinged feet up, swinging them. _No way, Solo,_ Han sternly told himself. Then she settled her chin in her hands and looked at him through her fans of lashes. "Come see for yourself, Hotshot," Leia said, in her best come-hither purr, and even that Han _maybe_ could have resisted, but not the way she immediately mocked her own vampy invitation, rolling her big eyes at herself, her face pink and crinkling at the nose. No, there was no resisting her laughter. In fact, Han Solo defied anyone alive to resist Leia Organa, gorgeous and giggling in her soft blue dress.

Han threw himself at the giant bed. Ten...no, eight minutes wouldn't allow for much, but it was enough for one helluva kiss.


	42. Chapter 42

Campbell's was the largest bookstore outside of Indianapolis, carrying used and new literature on countless subjects. Bail Organa had kept an account there; for decades Robert, the proprietor, had ordered in specialized titles for him and Ben Kenobi. The bookshop had been just down the street from a fancy candy shop, Leia remembered as she walked through the bustling retail district. When she was a child Bail and Breha took Leia to Mantell every fall, let her choose a quarter's assortment of sweets, and then she spent hours browsing packed shelves with her father while her mother happily shopped for secret gifts—for Christmas, but also for Luke and Leia's shared birthday on December twelfth. Those family trips had stopped when Leia was in her mid-teens, when her mother began to emotionally splinter. Bail had still driven into Mantell often for work, trying to coax his wife and daughter along, but Breha had stayed stubbornly, fearfully home. Leia had both longed to go and felt disloyal, responsible, so she'd stayed behind, too, bereft and resentful at the loss of the family ritual.

The candy shop was gone, Leia noted with a pang. As she passed what was now a hairdresser's, Leia decided that she was relieved; if the confectionery had remained, she'd have felt compelled to go in for old time's sake. She didn't want that ritual to be the same, with her parents the glaringly missing factor. Stepping into Campbell's was difficult enough; the papery, dusty, sunlit smell made Leia close her eyes, so powerful was the conjoined sense and absence of her father. Still, this time—and when, in time, had this become bearable?—Leia felt Bail's love and influence more than his loss. She was smiling genuinely when she hugged old Robert hello, then stroked Fitzgerald the ancient cat, curled in a shaft of light on the patched window seat.

Robert was pleased to see Leia again; he'd never much liked children, but Bail Organa's daughter had always been so solemn, intelligent and polite, offering to share her parcel of sweets, that he made an exception for her in his affections. Now he remembered, over the course of chatting with her, that he had a small stack of books he thought Ben Kenobi, his boyhood friend, would be interested in. One on homesteading, another on rural property claims. The last book was very rare, Robert said, put out by the Parsons School of Design. "Of course it wasn't called that in the early thirties, when Ben went there," Robert rambled. "Same place, though."

Leia turned the book, wrapped in sheer vellum, in her hands. Through the thin paper she could see the cover was plain gray, untitled, the binding unmarked, no hint at what was inside. "Parsons...isn't that in New York City?" She knew Ben had studied and taught in Chicago, but he'd never mentioned living in New York.

Robert nodded. "Oh, yes; we were quite young, then, only seventeen. Ben left on a full scholarship. Really, he was extravagantly talented. But there was some sort of..." Robert adjusted his glasses. "Well, breakdown, I gather. Over a break-up. And he came home, for a time, then left again rather suddenly. I never knew why—" A kind but talkative man, Robert seemed to hear himself speaking and covered his mouth in horror. "Please, keep that to yourself, my dear. I didn't mean—my, I've become a terrible old hen, haven't I?"

Conjuring a reason to look for something in the crowded back room, Robert left Leia alone. Slipping the books into her large leather satchel, Leia considered this news: _Ben_ had had a doomed affair? Ben was only about Padmé and Breha's age, and she had often pictured _them_ as the fizzy, exuberant, kindly-natured girls everyone said they'd been. But Leia couldn't quite imagine Ben young, let alone in love—dizzy and buzzing, thrumming and alive for someone, as she was for Han—though heartbreak could explain why Ben had led such a spartan emotional life. Leia being Leia, she was curious. Was it some sophisticated city girl, or perhaps a fellow student, if they let women into Parsons then? What had happened, to drive the lovers apart? Did Luke know? One thing Leia didn't wonder was why Ben had never recovered from his broken heart. The thought of losing Han...Leia's mind shied, like a spooked horse, from the thought. Then, she sternly reminded herself that she respected her mentor's privacy, and resolved to put the sad, unfinished story out of her mind.

Moving into the disorganized, musty stacks that went up to the ceiling, feeling the floor creak in familiar places under her heels, Leia browsed, leafing through pages at whim, enthralled by all the concentrated knowledge. Some time later, she suddenly thought _I'm all right_ with enough force to make her look up from a book. No, she didn't quite think it: it was more Leia heard herself say the words in her head to Bail and Breha, heard her own spontaneous bulletin to the heavens. She was not merely all right, either, Leia further amended; she was _joyful_.

And as she felt and knew her happiness, Leia's eye fell on something relative to her major source of that emotion. Wedged between a cookbook and a photography treatise was a battered, pale blue book, compact enough to fit in a pocket. It was a Spitfire manual, dated 1940, and reminded Leia of Han's story about finding his pilot's jacket in a thrift shop, how he'd felt compelled to rescue it. The slim book was mostly model schematics and operating instructions—engine, guns, ejector seat—which she knew would delight and absorb Han, but Leia raised an eyebrow to read the slightly scolding section on how an RAF officer should conduct himself. No swearing, no fisticuffs, scrupulous social correctness; it was implied that sex out of wedlock was best avoided. _Good luck with all that, Flyboy,_ Leia smiled, adding the manual to the small pile of books she'd selected for herself.

At the end of the aisle, Leia glimpsed another book. Teetering from its high shelf, it protruded from the other books as though hurriedly, surreptitiously re-shelved. Or as though in invitation. Stepping up onto a bottom shelf, reaching so far above her head she gave a little grunt of effort, Leia just managed to grasp the spine. Its covers were torn off. Opening the book at random, Leia thought with affectionate abstraction of Han retrieving things for her from high places, how accustomed she'd become to it. Easily he plucked apples from branches, seized cartons from grocery shelves, lopsided smile so triumphantly knightly as he presented her with these tokens that it always made Leia laugh and wonder, could he really be that pleased with himse—

Oh.

It was an art book, Leia supposed, from a certain point of view, but she would _not_ confirm that with Ben or Luke. From another perspective it was pornographic, though the paintings and drawings weren't crudely explicit—it was more that they revealed in judicious concealment. The pictures were unmistakably erotic, but delicate, impressionistic. There was none of the reductive ugliness that had tainted the magazines of Theo's she'd stumbled on in the closet of the Isolders' guest room during her brief stay. The sketches here depicted...a mutual revelling. Felt more inclusive to female experience, Leia decided, paging back to the flyleaf—maybe the book was a tastefully illustrated guide? Feeling rather satisfied with her analysis, and also with her new sexual worldliness, Leia was perhaps a bit self-congratulatory as she flipped straight onto an image of a woman with a man's head between her thighs.

Leia slammed the book shut, looking wildly up at the cobwebby ceiling, face flaming, belly hot; all her lofty reason and smugness obliterated by sense memory of Han. After a recuperative moment Leia eased the book open, only to utterly lose her breath on the next page, where the woman, well, reciprocated.

 _Oh._

Native curiosity, nervy lust and a novel sense of power conspired to hit Leia hard enough to sway her. Of course she couldn't buy the book; Leia shuddered to imagine handing _this_ over to be rung up by an old friend of her father's. But as always: Leia wanted to know, wanted to...was that, would Han—

"Just take whatever you like from the shelves, Leia," Robert called cheerfully from the back room. "Bail left nearly forty dollars here in credit. No need to run anything through with me! I trust you, dear."

It seemed like a sign. Before she could talk herself out of it—maybe trusting _herself_ —Leia shoved the provocative volume into her satchel.

XXXXXXXXXX

Unlocking the door to their hotel room, Han was hungry and exhausted. He figured he'd done all right at the show, kept his focus on which parts would fit in with Doc's fleet—none of the pieces were junk, not at this level, but Han was able to tell what was valuable, what could be fun, what was a goofy fad and what flat wouldn't work with their systems. Doc seemed to heed and appreciate his input, which felt better than Han expected. And after watching the way Doc and the guys conducted business, Han further liked and respected them, too. Today, Han had shaken more hands than he liked to, but he'd buttered no one up, had accepted no one's dismissive or scornful looks—in fact, he couldn't remember garnering even one. So he felt good about the way things had gone.

But Han wasn't looking forward to tonight's cocktail bit, which began in an hour in the Twin Suns Lounge. Pushing the door open Han sighed, knowing that didn't leave enough time to eat. Plus he had to dress up, he thought glumly, tugging apart the pearl snaps of his denim work-shirt, attire favored by most of the other mechanics at the show. On the bright side, Doc had encouraged everyone to bring their wives. Han knew Leia would make him laugh, she'd squeeze his arm, she'd dazzle all the guests with her intelligence and grace and he could just stand around with a drink, looking like the lucky jerk she'd picked. Not to mention his girl was the prettiest in the whole damn world—whole galaxy, Han wryly corrected, looking around the space-themed room. He'd feel safer with Leia there, he admitted to himself as he toed off his boots, the thought coming so quickly he couldn't suppress it.

Han heard running water; the suite smelled wonderfully of Leia's rose soap. Leaning into the open bathroom doorway, he could see Leia's slender, softly blurred shape behind pink frosted glass, hear her broken, dreamy humming. Corner of his lip twitching up, Han considered joining Leia, then realized she was balanced birdlike on one leg, using her little Bakelite razor on the other, so thought better of startling her.

He wandered back into the bedroom. There was a tidy clutch of small shopping bags atop the long, low cabinet— _mahogany? Nice_ —that encased the radio. Han remembered Leia mentioning Christmas gifts, so he gave her parcels a respectful berth, his eye falling on the complimentary bottles at the other end of the credenza. _Lando,_ Han thought, pouring himself two fingers of very good Scotch. He had to tell Lando about this place. Lando would love the Orbit so much he'd never leave. He'd probably become its mayor, or its superhero protector. Han chuckled. He could really see Calrissian in a cape.

There was a small stack of books next to the bottles. Idly, Han flipped the top book open to where it was marked by a slip of Leia's yellow notebook paper. A warm smile played about his lips as he knocked back half his drink. What was his curious girl researching n—

Han coughed fiery Scotch into the back of his hand. His eyes watered, blurring the image on the page. His back was to the bathroom door; spluttering, Han didn't hear the small bare feet pad up behind him on thick carpet. When he felt the delicate hand pat him between his shoulder blades, he jumped. Pawing the book shut, Han wheeled to face Leia—her face steam-flushed, wearing a plush bathrobe that was much too big for her, pulling a soft brush slowly through her wet hair. Standing on her toes to kiss his throat, Leia saw Han's neck was deep red, and so were his cheekbones. His breathing was short. Leia drew slowly back.

"Heyy- _ey_ , Princess!" Han hadn't known, until this moment, what a stammered drawl sounded like: a hack DJ with a gun to his head. "What's new?" _What's_ _ **new?!**_ _Jesus, Solo, get it together. It's not like you've never—_

"Han. Are you all right?"

"Sure, _sure._ Sure. Sure!" Han's Adam's apple bobbed as he tried to smile.

Leia cocked her head, scanning his face, hectic with warmth. Well...it had probably been a taxing day for Han, she decided, and gestured at a silver dome he had overlooked. "Did you have time to eat much today? I had a sandwich a little while ago. Not nearly as good as Chewie's," Leia said, loyally. "But decent. I ordered you one, too."

"I'm not, uh, hungry." Han studied her face; Leia thought his eyes looked strange...stricken, searching. She had the curious sense that she'd suggested something vaguely shocking. But then he gave a slow nod. "Wow. I am _starving._ Hungry. Thanks. Yeah."

Moving to the open balcony door for air, Han wolfed the BLT—good, though Leia was right, not like Chewie's. He _had_ been hungry, but mostly Han was grateful that the food gave him a focal point that wasn't...hell, he felt his face and neck prickling again. And then the endlessly inquisitive source of all this turbulent heat settled on the nearby chaise, pressing a towel to her thick hair. Leia gave him a long look, indulgent but edged in worry. "Han. _What_ is going on? Was it the show? You look like you've seen a—"

Han opened his mouth to say that what he'd _seen,_ Princess, was her sexy book. She was his girl, after all; he could be— _should_ be—frank with her, right? He hadn't meant to snoop, and he'd noticed that Leia appreciated his honesty, even when raw. But somehow he couldn't break the news, couldn't summon the attitude to pull it off. What was he, some blushing virgin? Han couldn't believe he was letting a _drawing_ of something he'd casually experienced get him this flustered.

But even as Han thought this, he knew the truth: it wasn't the picture, or even the act it depicted, that had him all shook up. That image was downright tame compared to some of the stuff that guys had sneakily screened in army barracks, or openly posted in their lockers on the docks. Not to mention the comprehensive tours Han had taken himself around those rich ladies' homes. No, this feeling was what it always was, since he'd met Leia. The same as the gold bikini day when he'd been actually inflamed by her novel, or by her wearing his shirt over her lavender dress before he'd even kissed her. Fantasies that, featuring some female cipher, would have pleasantly but passingly occupied Han became damned incendiary bombs when centered on his wife.

Han tugged at his already open collar. He couldn't think about this now, talk about this now with her, when they had a party to get ready for. When all he could think of was how easily her robe could...no. _Fly casual, Solo._ Han leaned against the wall in approximation of the nonchalant way Leia seemed to like, gave her his most killer grin. _Yeah, that's it. Play it cool._

"...situation normal, Sweetheart," is what Han croaked.


	43. Chapter 43

The goddamn party would never end.

Nothing had gone wrong. In fact, the night had gone so well Han couldn't quite believe it. It hadn't started off perfectly; as he and Leia approached the Twin Suns Lounge, one of the two identical doormen (...twins? Jeez, Han thought, the Orb really drove their gimmicks all the way) took them discreetly aside to explain that ties were required inside. Han had felt slightly crestfallen in his wedding clothes, and this could have fuelled his acerbic defences; probably would have, even a month ago. But the doorman was a decent sort—not a sneer anywhere in his face as he said his piece, if anything he was apologetic—and Leia, always resourceful and diplomatic, convinced the guy to briefly re-open the hotel gift shop to sell them a tie. _Then_ Leia nabbed a narrow navy silk, and thank God for that, because the other ties were all stitched with moons and Big and Little Dippers. Leia hadn't even had to ask what Han liked, just plucked the only plain one from the rack.

The tie was nice enough. Still, Han's fingers itched to work apart the knot at his neck. Nothing trapped like a tie. He couldn't trust himself not to tug at it, so he kept one hand wrapped around his whiskey glass, the other pressed to the small of Leia's back, their warmth mingling through her rose-patterned silk. She looked unbelievable tonight, her hair pinned high in that new style Han didn't know the name of but he sure liked. Her huge eyes were edged in fine, angled black, her lashes inky and thick, a flush of pink to her fair skin. The party dress he'd bought her bared Leia's creamy shoulders and highlighted her lovely chest, and its frothy skirt swished and whispered to Han as she moved, so dainty and poised atop her silver shoes. And charming? _Man,_ his girl could work a room, but always as herself. Han heard nothing false from Leia's mouth, even while she managed to set people at ease, make them laugh, strike them with her original thoughts. She could talk with anyone about anything: history, books, weather, movies, work, the upcoming presidential election (Luke and Leia kept burning up the telephone wires to each other, supporting Stevenson over Eisenhower; Luke was even volunteering for the cause on campus! Han thought all politicians were crooked windbags). But Leia spoke with no exclusion or pretension, and listened with authentic interest to other opinions. Han could see that Doc and his wife, Dorothy, liked Leia instantly.

After meeting Leia the other men in the room—salesmen, reps, executives, mechanics alike—kept looking back: at her with awe, and at Han with new respect. Han didn't like that part. He wasn't bothered that people found Leia beautiful and smart—to Han this was simply objective fact; Leia was delicate and vivid, varied and spectacular, like some human sunset—but he didn't welcome the implication that her attributes were somehow a credit to _him_. Leia's beauty, wit and grace were hers. Hers. Forces to be expressed or utilized as she saw fit. Han felt he had very little to do with it, except for being the blessed bastard who got to behold her unchecked and up close.

Speaking of _that._ How long would this party go on? Han's hand twitched at Leia's back, the other tightening on his glass hard enough he half-expected to hear a crack. He glanced down at Leia again. She was looking across the lounge to a pool table tucked in an alcove, men playing upon it, upcoming challengers tracked in chalk on a steel-framed blackboard. With an allusive eyebrow Leia took Han's glass and drained it, licking Scotch from the corner of her pink lips.

Han gulped. He'd be able to breathe all right if only he could loosen that damned knot.

XXXXXXXXXX

Passing by the billiards alcove on her way out of the party with her husband, Dorothy glimpsed Doc's newest employee. Han Solo was a tall, lanky fellow, but lacking the gawkiness that often plagued leggy men; for the last hour he'd prowled around that gaming table easy on his feet, sleeves rolled up and tie tucked between his shirt buttons against the blue chalk, cool and intent until he'd routed the lot. Noting Han's commitment to winning, Dorothy had asked Doc, was money at stake? And he'd said not here, not this early at night anyway, it wasn't in good taste—maybe when the party got later. But now Dorothy saw why Han had played so long: it had been a war of attrition. Now that Han had driven the other players off, he'd claimed the table and semi-private alcove for himself and his young wife.

Doc had said Solo was brilliant, hardworking, a bit lippy, creative, real set on his hunches. When Dorothy had met Han tonight, she'd thought him polite but wary, watchful in the large clutch of people. A skeptical kid, Dorothy thought, and despite his cocky body language, not as impressed with himself as you'd think, considering his good looks. He'd seemed to be biting back all night on some sharp, cynical remark. But the young man visible in the alcove as Dorothy passed—curved around his pretty, clever young wife as she bent over the green felt, adjusting their grip on the cue as he laughed into her neck—seemed gentler, and helplessly in love, enough that Dorothy felt suddenly, oddly protective of him. She and Doc had never had children; it simply hadn't happened, though they'd both wanted them very much. She supposed this, along with her rare intake of three sloe gin fizzes, was why she felt an unaccountable rush of motherly feeling for the Solo boy.

Goodness, Dorothy was turning into a misty thing. She shook her head at herself. But...but it was heartbreaking in the best way, to see this new couple swaying just slightly to that pretty instrumental—what had the DJ called it, "Sleepwalk,"that was it—settled close and snug like a matched set. Yes, Dorothy thought, young Mr. and Mrs. Solo were a bit like her Pyrex nesting bowls, close and designed to fit despite their marked difference in size. One of Solo's long arms was outstretched, hand peaked on the felt, supporting Leia's, the chalked tip of the cue between her fingers. His other hand was closed over hers on the cue's base, pulling and gliding the polished wood, and those paired hands seemed almost a distinct organism; fingers meshing, parting, forming and reforming their clasp. _Young love._ Dorothy smiled. Glancing at his junior apprentice, then back at his wife, Doc smiled knowingly back, and in his lined face Dorothy could still see her own handsome, brash hotshot groom. Then her husband of thirty-one years linked his fingers with hers, forming their familiar bond, and tugged her on.

"Don't worry, pet," Doc said, knowing how Dottie was ruled by her heart. "Those kids are going to make it, don't worry about that."

Dottie sighed. "You think so?"

"Sure." Doc shrugged. "He looks at her like I look at you."

Smiling, Dottie squeezed her husband's hand, avoiding the index finger he'd broken when he was twenty-six and never had set; now it ached sometimes. "Well. She looks right back."

XXXXXXXXXX

Tipsy, hurrying, blithely burning, Han and Leia passed their room at least twice. By the time they found it and Leia turned to the door to get the key from her clutch Han's breath came hot and fast against the back of her neck, hands roaming over her front, sides, unable to breach the crinolines to her thighs but trying, trying. He'd been throbbing for the last half-hour at least, pressing her against the pool table when no one was looking, and in truth Leia was more than ready too—she hadn't anticipated the sexiness of the game, especially seeing Han dispatch every opponent with efficient predation, no messing around, just to claim that table for her. And then, when it was theirs, he'd been so supportive, funny, affectionate, indulgent in his instruction—content to let her practice, practice, practice as they shared a tumbler of whiskey neat, calling her a natural strategist when she began to think a few shots ahead, taking his payment in stolen kisses. In fact, Han had been patient unto near-sainthood until the second Doc left the party, and then he'd seized Leia's hand, saying _Yeah, that was fun. We're done here, right?_

It was hard to unlock the door when her hands were shaking, when Han kept stroking, kissing, gripping, tasting, but finally Leia turned the lock and they stumbled into dim lamplight. Brusquely, Han kicked the door shut, unzipping Leia's dress and brushing the silk apart, lips on her shoulders, spine. Leia spun in Han's arms to face him but stepped back from his seeking kiss, escaping him, letting her dress hiss to the floor. She didn't so much step free of the frothy crinolines and silk as she...oh, Leia emerged as though from waves, all ivory curves in sheer shell-pink satin basque and tiny scalloped bottoms, nude seamed hose hooked into her garters.

"Ahhhh, Princess: what is _this_ ," Han moaned, almost reproachful, as though she'd hurt him. Under his wide, hot eyes Leia glowed with shyness, daring, pride, invitation. But Han didn't move, just stared, his hands frozen in the act of loosening his tie, until finally she bent to unstrap her high shoes. "Leave 'em on," Han said, almost harshly. "Leave, just...leave it. All." He swallowed, hard. "Sweetheart. _Jesus_."

Now Han reached out and looped his fingers into Leia's garter straps, reeling her in and close, eyes raking, lips slightly agape. And then his shock broke and Han kissed her, feverish and devouring, his hands closing on her waist as he walked her backward. Leia felt herself lifted, so quickly and effortlessly that she caught her breath as he hitched her legs around his slim hips; she forgot, sometimes, how strong Han was, he typically handled her with such gentleness. But now he placed her on the credenza with insistence, soft but emphatic, and set about touching her through satin until their breathing turned erratic and ragged.

"Woulda put you on the pool table, if I thought we'd get away with it," Han muttered.

"We _are_ against a wall." Leia got out between whimpers. "Han. We have...neighbors."

"Then we'll do it real quiet-like." Han's grin was game, but his eyes were almost lupine, fixed and hypnotic. He growled in vexation when Leia's underwear caught under her garter straps and on the tops of her stockings. She reached down; the sides of the little fluttery briefs tied with bows and together they worked to unbind them. Then Han drew back into a last searching look. Leia caught him by his slack tie, pulling him closer and unbuttoning his fly, hooking her legs about his waist. "Don't stop. Don't you dare," Leia whispered. "Han, I want you, I _want_ you like this."

Leia didn't know if it had been the day's separations and restraints, or that they were both slightly drunk, or that they were not at home, but tonight, Han was different. More ferocious, adamant, kissing her hard and deep. She was different too—there was almost a sense of contest, this time, between them as they moved, as if the long day, the night both close and apart, the sense of being on display had fuelled some loving, explosive duel. They stayed quiet as they could and this was the game: try to make the other break, speak, cry out, plead. Used to the solitude of the lake, they both shook with this new restraint, vibrating with suppression, kissing to soothe bitten lips. Soon Leia felt Han's fingers clutch with thwarted expression at the hooks and eyes running along her spine; not knowing if she was trying to get closer yet to Han or seeking to solve him, Leia drew her knees high and tight against his ribs, dragging her stockings against him. A silver heel grazed his lower back through his shirt. Han jerked; his palm slapped hard, fingers splayed, against the wall above her head. Leia sighed in soft triumph as Han groaned, his tone almost aggrieved: _ah Leia it's so good._ His eyes on hers were unsettled, besotted, and Leia smiled gleefully back, but her gloating couldn't last; she'd scored first, but Han wasn't yet bested. With his own unsteady grin flashing at her in the dim, Han's stroke got harder, shorter, in a rhythm that was risky for him but he knew also finished Leia fast when he timed it right. Sure enough she muffled her mouth against one small hand, the other digging into his flexing shoulder. His eyes darted between Leia's dreamy, intense expression and the gathering blush tinting the tops of her breasts; through the sheer fabric Han could see Leia's skin flushing, deepening the pale pink satin, her peaked nipples rosy punctuation.

 _No. Too much. Don't look at—_ Han pressed his trembling lips to Leia's hair, her ear, pressed his thumb above their juncture, making her shudder. In his low, taut voice, Leia heard apology, and also demand: _C'mon Princess, c'mon...c'mon._ In his eyes, she saw challenge dissolving into rapture. They breathed in hard sync, like they were running a flight of stairs together, up and up and up and—and then the bottom seemed to drop out of the structure beneath them, tumbling them into weightlessness, into rushing heat. Ruining their whole hushed climb with a sharp shared cry of discovery, of injury, of wonderful, everlasting remedy.

For a long time after Han clasped Leia close, one arm braced against the wood beneath, both rising and falling on their rough tide of breath. "...and that's how you win at nine-ball, Princess," he finally rasped into her heated neck, feeling his own lips curve against her quivering laugh.

XXXXXXXXXX

Famished, they called for late-night room service; the kitchen was closed, but there was limited food still available from the hotel bar. Leia tried to keep her voice straight on the phone as Han, sprawled beside her on the bed with the full restaurant menu, drawled out impossible orders— _Spaghetti. Steak and eggs. Neapolitan ice cream. Sixteen Shirley Temples—_ between every word she said. In the end they got the one thing the bar still served: cheeseburgers and fries.

"Flip to see who answers the door?" Leia said facetiously, reclining on her side in her pink satin and the bed's silver silk, her hair tumbling down from its arrangement. Han eyed her with amused, possessive lust. "No fuckin' way," he growled. All Han had to do to get the door was fasten his trousers and belt, which he did with a wink when they heard the knock. The food took the edge off their minor drunkenness, leaving them languid and drowsy, and though it was after midnight Leia suggested the bath. It was big enough for both of them, and it was soothing, though Han grumbled that it wasn't hot enough, not near as good as _their_ tub at home, that fiberglass couldn't hold heat the way cast-iron did. She chuckled at his typical fixation on quality and process but secretly Leia, nestling back against Han's chest, was touched by his proprietary attitude to Alder Glen—words like _our_ hadn't yet lost their ability to move her. Privately, she agreed with him; their big tub was better. But this bath was comfortable enough to lure them into dozing off, both horrified when they woke in chill water at almost one in the morning.

"Let's not end this night by drowning," Leia said as dryly as she could through chattering teeth, as Han bundled them into bulky robes. Ill-advised or not, the short nap seemed to revive them; at home they often kept odd hours together, warmly interrogating one another, swapping their stories and memories like parts to see how their lives fit—both as individuals and as a unit. What did they think? What did they like? What did they want, and fear, and hate? In their robes they curled together on the big curvy chaise, lights off but for the glow from the electric fireplace, drinking champagne mostly because it was free. "All class, this guy," Han said, swigging from the bottle. He stretched out on his back—feeling great, really great, had he ever felt better in his life? Leia under his arm, tucked up close, both of them lazy and sated and warm and fed. Clean. Employed. Just enough drink to feel pleasantly undid. This was the life, man. This was it.

"I got a book today," Leia said. "For you."

Han choked on a tart, bubbly draught. He pointed at himself, silently mouthing "... _me?"_

"For you, Flyboy." Leia rose to her knees. "A manual. I mean, you probably know how most of it works already, you're so good at all of it, but..." Han brought a bent arm up behind his head, grinning widely, smugly up at her. "...but I thought you'd like it."

He brushed her hair from her face. "Oh, I'm sure I will, Sweetheart," Han said, in his best slow baritone.

Leia looked at him oddly, which was weird; normally she liked that timbre, especially when they talked about sex. But then she smiled. "There _is_ this funny bit on how to behave in public. I was thinking that you've probably already broken all of those rules."

"Uh." It was Han's turn to be slightly nonplussed. "I mean...I'm more of a behind closed doors kinda guy."

She blinked, and he watched something in her eyes ignite like an atomic flash. _"Han!"_ Leia brought her hands to her flaming cheeks with a tiny slap. "Not—I didn't mean _that_ book! You've seen _that?_ "

"...yeah?" Han was unable to prevent his startled laugh. "Hey, it wasn't my fault—"

"Why didn't you _say_ so?" Now Leia got up; Han reached for the belt on her robe, to pull her back. But he soon realized she wasn't upset, she was laughing, going to the books that were now somewhat scattered on the sideboard. She shot him a slightly wounded look, though, as she returned. "That was a mean trick."

Rapidly Han shook his head. "No, no. I thought—I wouldn't, Sweetheart." He shrugged sheepishly. "I really thought you meant..."

Rolling her eyes, Leia dropped a small blue book in Han's lap. "Wow, hey—" He picked up the Spitfire manual, setting the bottle on the floor beside the chaise, misunderstanding forgotten. "This is great!" For a while they read peacefully in the bad light, Han frowning sometimes into the electric flames as he made mental calculations, noted differences in American and British aeronautical engineering, considered new ways of doing things at work. Man, his _girl,_ she really—the manual was a treasure trove. Three diagrams on _ejector seats?_ Hell, yeah. God, Han thought, he would have killed for this book when he was a kid—but then, he thought darkly, someone would have stolen it from under his mattress, and he'd have to fight the prick to get it back.

Han had earned his reputation for toughness and brutal skill as a fighter young and honestly, but he'd never developed the compensatory ability to enjoy inflicting his share of the Home's inevitable violence. He did it when he had to, over and over, ruthlessly enough to drive off each aggressor forever. But during a fight he was shut down to pain, both his and his opponent's, and it hurt some when it was all over, when he came back on. After a fight Han always felt somehow reduced, furious, sick with adrenaline and a hard disgust.

Han shook his head to chase his ugly thoughts from his perfect night, to drive them far from the delicate skull of his wife, as though proximity to him could expose her to the abuses of his past. No, it was better to have this book now—he had everything now, Han realized with dawning wonder, everything he'd ever missed, everything a man could ever want, plus goddamn interest. So much better to have nothing then and everything now, when he could keep what was his _safe_.

Grateful, if still a little doubtful, Han turned to kiss the top of Leia's head, then saw what she was reading. "Yow, Princess. _That_ is the book I thought you meant."

Leia kissed the wrist resting at her breastbone. "It's very interesting."

Han nodded, putting down his own book, reaching for the bottle again. "What is it you're finding so... interesting?"

She didn't even blink, or look up from the page. "Fellatio."

Han's eyes almost popped out of his handsome head and then he was laughing so hard he was almost soundless, writhing, his hand covering his face in delighted shock. "No, no—"

"Yes!" Leia said, a bit crossly, pointing at the text. "See, here, that's what it's—"

This set Han off again. Leia and her words. He thought his chest would burst with adoration and mirth. "Sure, that's the _term,_ but it's not—Sweetheart!" Han managed a breath. "Okay, it's like this...when someone's coming, they don't say _Good heavens, I am experiencing an_ —"

Leia cringed into her own laughter.

Han smiled. "Right? No matter how _correct_ that is." His smile turned devilish. "No: _they_ say 'oh, oh, _oh,_ oh' and then their big pretty eyes go bigger and their pretty skin goes pink and their little feet bunch up and maybe their mouth makes this amazing shape—and there's no word that gets that across, y'know, exactly how they say my—"

"Oh my God! Han! Be quiet," Leia hissed, mortified at his jubilant volume.

" _You're_ not quiet." Han laughed unrepentantly, his face bright with joy and mischief and mild intoxication. But when he saw the deep red of Leia's cheeks in the firelight his expression softened; Han leaned close to tuck her hair behind her ear, to cup her face, to give her a long, champagne-laced kiss. His voice was warm and dark and close. "Hey: I love it. I love you like that, Leia, you're so beautiful. It's like your own little song."

Leia loved Han like that, too. The inarticulate things he said, her name, his broken pleas. The way his expression moved through anguish to disbelief, then hazy peace. She liked knowing she could bring him to cursing helplessness, take him through that into melting closeness. Leia looked back at the book, Han following her eyes. She took the bottle from his hand, drank. "Do you like it?"

"Do I..."

"Do you like fe—well, what would you call it?"

"Ah hell, Sweetheart, I never called it anything, much. You just—you just give it. Or get it."

Leia tossed back her hair. "Well, _I_ like it." Han grinned, gratified and charmed by her brazen declaration. She drank again, deeply. "So. Do you?"

"You want me to say it, huh?" Han's angled upper lip twitched: playful but also, Leia knew, evasive. He took the bottle back for a long, rolling swallow. "Alright. Do I like it with you? You know I do."

She raised her fine, wry brow, always in dauntless pursuit of the truth. "And _you_ know what I mean." Leia tapped her fingers on the page and reclaimed the champagne. It was beginning to feel, to Han, like some drinking game. Dare, truth.

Fine, Han sighed: in truth? He had never been wild about getting it. At best he couldn't relax. (Han didn't say here, to Leia or to himself, that he didn't like the feeling of need, of being at the mercy of someone else.) And at worst...Han paused, drank again. Damn it, Leia would always figure out the truth, always, so he might as well come out with it: at worst, he said, some women in his past had a way of—almost ceremonially taking their knees, as though the lowering of themselves was the act itself. Han paused again. Leia's fingers combed slow, calming patterns through the hair on his chest. Han cleared his throat. The last time had been just after Korea. Some divorcee he'd briefly seen in Baltimore, a redhead who said her ex-husband, some bigshot banker, had wanted it almost exclusively...like that, her on her knees. Because, she said, all men wanted to feel like kings. Well, that had made Han's skin crawl—he'd cracked halfway through, asked her to quit it, get up, stop it. He tried to tell her not to take it personal, like, but Red got pissed off, asked him what the hell was his problem? And a bit drunk, he'd snapped back that maybe he was that one crazy guy who didn't want someone he was fucking to feel like his subject. And...that had been the end of that, Han said, with a hollow chuckle. Middle of the night, Red had tossed Han out of her ritzy apartment.

He risked a glance at Leia. He'd never really talked to her—or anyone, really—about his sexual past. Her face was patient, considering, affectionate, empty of judgement. Han drank again, then passed her the bottle; without drinking, Leia put it down on the floor.

"It doesn't have to be like that," Leia said at last, softly, and touched his face. "It's not like that, at all. No one has to be...debased. I don't see you as debased, when it's you doing it. There's no reason that has to be different, for a woman. It can just be...us."

Han considered this. Remembered how he'd felt today when he saw the illustration, he'd felt—hell, he'd felt electric for the rest of the night. The thought of her...the thing was...Han rubbed the back of his neck. The thing _was_ , Leia shaped and quickened Han's carnal thoughts, gave them her own irresistible maker's mark. From the beginning, even when Han believed her forever out of reach, Leia had specialized his once inchoate lust. And the only difference, now that Leia was his, was that she weighted his dreams with her own want.

 _Ahhhh,_ _ **that**_ _was it,_ he thought, unconsciously exhaling as Leia settled closer. Even in the midst of his increasing tension, Han felt a degree of satisfaction to name it, to know it, the source of his obsession. That _was_ it, what had Han about to jump out of his own constricted skin all night, and now: Leia's want. He was sparked, hard, by Leia's own interests and desires springing distinct and separate from his, while knowing they would yet encompass him. Because the idea of...of Leia looking at...no, of Leia buying...of Leia _bookmarking..._.

Leia was kissing his chest.

"Sweetheart. You don't have to—"

Leia looked up at Han, her expression tolerant, bemused, a little ferocious. "Han. Believe me. I'll never do anything, again, because I think I _have_ to." Now her smile flashed wicked; he knew just what Leia's genuine want looked like, and the sight of it now made him bite his lip. With wide eyes Han watched her slowly shed her robe then move over him bare and breathtaking in the firelight, opening the terrycloth tied at his waist, kissing his flat belly. She pressed her palm against him, found him ready, felt his breathing pick up. Leia looked levelly at Han, then, a clear, frank question in her eyes, a request that was both eager and respectful—expecting only his honest answer, his absolute truth, and happy to accept it, whatever it was.

He touched her hair, her fine jaw, the shell of her ear. He said, in a quiet voice, "Yes."

Leia was tentative at first, exploratory. Han's hands flexed in her hair, on her shoulders, back of her neck, relaxed; moved, flexed, relaxed in a restless circuit. His head bent back of its own accord. On the ceiling, now seemed an absurd time to notice, the solar system was rendered in phosphorescent paint, glowing in the near-dark: sun, moon, planets, tiny dots of stars arranged in cryptic mythic pictures and swirling knots. It must have taken weeks. There was something naive about it, Han felt rather than thought, and also something hopeful, sweet, someone up there on a ladder armed with some galactic map and a brush, with the patience and knowledge and doggedness to...

Oh, oh, she'd found her pattern, sweet and inexorable. The unexpected sounds he heard from his throat made Han feel exposed, exhilarated. All his reservations about this, with Leia, vanished into gentle, irresistible revolution; her hand, her tongue, her heat—she knew him, Han thought with rushing pressure and awe, Leia knew him and she could—would, _did_ —use this information on him in ruthless, wonderful, affecting ways, every day and this was what love _was_ , these delicious tactics, the tender deployment of specialized knowledge and—

Han tried to keep his eyes open, they kept falling shut. He felt airless, tight, there was no breath in space—everything was coming fast, faster, he was a comet hurtling through love and damage toward light, Leia, Leia and her mercy, mercy, mercy. Meeting his small, precious fixed point of the universe. And Han arched toward her, and now he was breathing, panting, he arched into the firmament of the night sky he couldn't see anymore but felt, streaking, behind his eyes. Gasping _Leia I love, I love you._


	44. Chapter 44

They woke very late, past one. After a slow spell together in rumpled sunlit sheets—how else to gauge the square footage of the bed, Han had disingenuously appealed as he pulled her astride him, yes this was how it worked, really, Princess, who was the carpenter here anyway?—they ordered a ridiculous brunch, elaborate to the point of silliness, space references wedged into every dish. "Huh," Han read a pamphlet about the hotel restaurant as he chewed, "says here this guy's a starred chef. Whatever that is." Stabbing a Saturn-shaped pancake on his fork, Han frowned at it. "But his flapjacks ain't a patch on Chewie's."

Noticing the clock, they packed in a hurry. Han tried the square footage gambit again with Leia in the shower, only to be denied—"Han! You are not a _plumber!_ "—checkout time was in twenty minutes, just enough time for Leia to untidily bind her damp hair. They were a little sad to leave the Orbit, while happy to be going home all the same.

It was a beautiful autumn afternoon, crisp and clear as a bell, and so they browsed a bit in downtown Mantell, locking the bags and parcels in the cab of the truck. In a gourmet shop Han bought Chewie a copper pot for Christmas, much more expensive than standard but that was okay with Han because copper, he explained, was such a good conductor. Han was so pleased to have found this merger of his knowledge and his friend's, this symbol of his regard, that it made Leia's throat close up, a little, and she linked her hand with his. Thinking of Chewie made them hungry, and they stopped to eat. It was past four when they hit the highway proper, just starting to get a little darker; and after five, over half-way home, when Leia saw it: saw the Ferris wheel light up.

It was called the Mantell Fair, but really it was a carnival that set up, intermittently, almost anywhere in the rolling farmland between Mantell and New Hope. It appeared some years not at all, and others anywhere between June and the end of October. Leia had never been to the Mantell Fair in any of its incarnations; her mother refused to let her, and this was one restriction her more lenient father supported. During the day the fair was all right, and in truth most of the nights were fine, too, filled with teenagers and prospective lovers. But every once in a while, one night a season, the sticky-sweet fun soured as though someone had laced the cotton candy with poison. Leia had seen it over years of reading the _Gazette_ —fights, thefts, vandalism, drunken scenes. Still, she had always yearned to go, wanted to experience the atmosphere for herself. Going to the Mantell Fair was one thing all the kids at school did that Leia wanted to do, too. Her friends had all been, even Luke sneaked out there once a year or so with the Rogues, and nothing had ever happened to any of them except once Luke had his pocket picked of four dollars, which, the cousins agreed, had somehow only added to Fair's allure.

Han had never been to a carnival either. Baltimore had a big one, Gwynn Oak Park, and as a child he'd always wanted to go but it wasn't like people were lining up to take him places, no matter what them Shirley Temple movies pretended about adorable Depression orphans. Then when him and Lando and Chewie were rooming together, Lando's sister Willa was in town and they were looking to entertain her. Han had remembered Gwynn Oak and suggested that they check it out, only to be met with stony silence, even from Chewie. Han looked around at the group, all glaring at him as though he'd made some ugly joke. Han still winced to recall how hurt Willa had looked. When Lando stiffly said that the place was segregated, Han exploded in such natural outrage that everyone knew at once he hadn't made some sick joke—Lando was good enough to bleed with him in Korea, Han bellowed, but they couldn't ride a fuckin' _roller coaster_ together? Han still bellowed it, a bit, recounting the story to Leia: at least that bullshit, Han ranted, had got him in the valuable habit of finding out if a place was run by goddamn racist idiots before he went there and spent his money. Leia agreed, then said that the Mantell Fair didn't follow that ridiculous and ugly practice, though she couldn't swear it was out of human decency as opposed to desire to maximize profit. Fine, Han answered. He just wanted to be able to maybe someday go there with Lando, if it was a fun time, without some jerkoff treating his good buddy who was _a fuckin' war veteran, by the way,_ Han added with a mighty upraised finger, with disrespect.

Finally Han took a breath.

"Whaddaya say, Princess?" Han asked, as the exit approached.

"I don't know. My mother always said the place was full of ruffians." Leia's lip quirked.

"Psssshshhhh." Han half-grinned at her, all lazy bravado. "Ruffians are a coupla ranks below scoundrels, Sweetheart. I'll protect you."

Han took the exit off the highway on their whim. It seemed like a good idea then, and when they parked in the adjoining field and locked their stuff in the cab it was a lark, both laughing like kids getting away with something as they clasped hands and jogged across the calf-high grass to what looked like a gaudy village, illuminated in the gathering dark.

Inside the gates, the fairground was filled with simmering energy; it was everywhere, convivial but not exactly friendly. The feeling was in the snatches of jagged, jaunty organ music, screams from the rides, the grease shimmering above the Fry-O-Lator, the rockabilly tunes from the band set up in the concession tent. In the air Han could taste salt, malt vinegar, beer, burnt sugar. Leia's eyes were bright and intrigued; Han grinned back, but he was wary. He wouldn't say he had a bad feeling about this—not yet, not exactly; he would never have brought Leia in here if he'd felt real worry. But underneath it all Han sensed that metallic tang of excitement: sweat, revelry, fermentation, adrenaline, sex. Saturday night. And he knew that kind of excitement had a double edge.

XXXXXXXXXX

Han killed all the metal ducks, fast, no sweat, gave them a humane death: bang bang bang _bang_. The guy running the stall didn't like it, he thought he had that shit rigged, the pellet gun weighted to the left and the sight sawed off. But Han was good at compensating for all machinery, and he'd been the best marksman his year in the army. The day Han Solo couldn't murder a flock of tin birds to impress his girl was the day that he would hang _everything_ up.

And Leia was impressed, he could see it in the way her pupils dilated a bit, like when he was playing pool. Han walked her on his arm to the prize counter with a bit of a swagger, he'd admit it, sure. There was a tray of silly costume rings, gaudy paste rocks like the kind the dentist gave out, and for a fleeting moment Han considered presenting her with one of these—why? To playfully undermine his earlier voiced desire to give her a ring? A joke to reassure her, or himself?—but he glanced up to see Leia watching him and let her choose the prize. Leia pretended to consider the terrifying two-foot clown bunny for a full three minutes— _Do it,_ Han said, idly hooking a thumb in his waistband, _We'll give it to Antilles for Christmas_ —before she chose instead a cream straw cowboy hat. He rolled his eyes. Leia eyed his pearl-snapped white twill workshirt.

"Goes with that."

To please her Han bowed so Leia could place the hat on his head, which she did as though awarding him a medal. He straightened, and winked down at her. She laughed, then stopped, studying him more closely. "It's surprisingly attractive."

Han put on comical indignation, settling the hat back on his crown. " _Surprisingly?_ "

"Don't get stuck-up." She tucked her arm through his. "Cowherder."

He laughed droplets of root beer into the back of his hand. "D'you maybe mean cowboy?"

Daintily she sipped her cream soda. "Maybe. Whatever."

Now Han laughed in earnest, deep and rich. "How, _how,_ could you know the correct technical terms for," he tickled her ribs, "for...everything," he raised an eyebrow to punctuate his meaning, "And fall down on _cowboy?_ "

Leia shrugged cheerfully. "You're terribly cute."

He bent swiftly down, tapping the brim of his hat up and out of the way, and kissed her. "Welp, you're real cute too, ma'am, I reckon," Han said, in a goofy drawl.

"I'll start reading Westerns," Leia said, primly, as she stood on her toes to loop her arms at his neck, pressing against him, kissing him back in a way that was not at all ladylike. Then she turned and walked off towards the rides, glancing back at him over her shoulder only once—but what a look.

"I'll start wearin' this hat in the fuckin' bath, if you'll kiss me like that," Han said breathlessly, as he ran after her.

XXXXXXXXXX

"The Octopus?" Han looked doubtfully at the riveted collection of flying steel beams.

"Surely _you_ can't be scared of heights, Flyboy." Leia had expected Han to be more like Luke, his fellow speed enthusiast. Luke loved rides, the wilder and faster the better—he'd already been to two theme parks in Chicago, he'd told Leia happily, the last time was so great, he'd gone with this—and then he'd caught himself. Not that the Octopus looked particularly wild, Leia thought; a collection of seats attached to rotating metal arms.

Han gave Leia a tolerant smirk. "It's not heights bugs me," he said. "It's that I don't know the guy running the machine bolted together by another guy I don't know, followin' specs that coulda been drawn up by... wolves."

Leia laughed. _"Wolves?"_

Han shrugged, unbothered.

"Fine, forget the Octopus. But I say riding the Ferris wheel is a non-negotiable element of any fairgoing experience," Leia said.

Han squinted up at the creaking, turning wheel. Its shape was picked out in neon lights against the lowering night, real pretty, like a big Easter egg, all lilacs and yellows and pinks. Must have been, Han thought, near-irresistible to curious, sheltered child-Leia from a distance, from the window of her family's very correct car. "Yeah, hell. Let's take our lives in our hands, Princess."

There was something about that thing, about Leia on it, that Han never forgot, no matter what else happened that night outside Mantell. At the top of that first arc she threw out her arms and burst into laughter, laughing into a squeal as they fell downwards, not exactly fast, Han knew, but swift enough to give you butterflies from belly to throat, especially if you'd never been on a flight. After a few spins the guy operating the thing paused their bucket seat at the top, tossing Han a wink like he was doing him some male favor. And as they hung there, swinging gently in the crisp breeze and suspended, Han _did_ kiss Leia—it was pretty romantic, he thought, hanging here with her at a private height, overlooking the fields and lights—they shared a long sweet kiss, after which Leia looked wildly around and burst into tears. Han's eyebrows shot up in horror and she buried her face into his shirt and shook her head, her arms thrown around him, his tightening around her.

"What is it?" Han murmured, stricken, into her hair. "Leia, what...?"

And Leia, for once, lacked the words to explain. It was something about the scope of her sight—about the highway she could see from here, so close she could almost see Luke leave, or herself in her family's Oldsmobile. Herself passing and isolated, in the past but yearning for this. And this was _now,_ this was the sweep of the breeze and the pastel lights picked out against the October night, the reach into the sky, closeness of Han's warmth and the press of his lips, all conspiring to shock her into full, sudden, overwhelming life.

XXXXXXXXXX

There was something about the concession tent Han didn't like, once they were inside it. Outside shadows licked at the dingy white canvas, but the lighting inside was too hot, too harsh. It was crowded, loud. The rockabilly band on the stage at the far end sounded sour; out of tune, or sped up too fast—something was off in a way that subtly troubled Han. He had a bad feeling about _this_ , yes. This tent was his bad feeling made manifest.

But Leia wanted another cream soda, and he could use a Coke. The games and rides and noise and salty mist made you thirsty at a fair, even in the fall. "Wanna come with me?" Han asked, indicating the line at the refreshment stand. He tried to word it as a casual request, but his smile came slick and shallow, and he felt his eyes roving. Leia looked at him strangely, then spied an open table. "No, you go, I'll grab that!" She hurried to the two-top in a corner of the tent and slid her back to the canvas wall, where the benches formed a right-angled perch. Han swallowed, then shook his head, beating back the disquiet. He was being stupid. It was just that he didn't like being crowded, hemmed, boxed in—he preferred open spaces. Skies, roads; the peace and space at Alder Glen had come to be his ideal surroundings. This crowd thing was just him, his personal hangup, probably from how he'd grown up. But Leia was fine. And what was he gonna do, anyway, Han asked himself as he crossed the tent to the bustling concession, keep her so close he smothered her? Carry her in his jacket everywhere? He took his place in line, eyeing the menu board. Her independence was one of the first things he'd loved about Leia. How many steps were there from protector to jailer?

The lousy band chose this moment to launch into a crude version of Jerry Lee Lewis' "Wild Child." The piano, Han thought, that was it that gave the atmosphere its wrong, nightmarish slant—the piano was warped. He didn't have an ear for music, but you could say he had an ear for wood. A nasty flicker ran the length of his spine and back with every curdled note. Han thought later how strange—Leia would say _ironic_ —it was that he was so consumed in his bad feeling that he didn't hear any actual screaming. Maybe because he subconsciously knew the screams weren't Leia's; she wasn't given to hysterics anyway, but these screams were shrill, much too shrill for her voice. The screams were not distinguishable as fear or laughter. Regardless, it wasn't any sound that spurred Han, made him jerk up his head and wheel around; it was the sudden descending buzz in the air, a pressure in his ears, a caustic burn in his nose. The ozone stink of prurient excitement; he could almost hear the Corell Home chant in his head: _Fight. Fight._ Han's eyes flew to the spot where he'd left his wife. Leia was too small to see in the crowd, but above the corner she'd been sitting, the tent was rippling. He could see creases leaping up the canvas. Some pit yawned open in his stomach. Han tore across the sawdust at a hard, dead run.

XXXXXXXXXX

Theo Isolder's big, blunt head had been freshly shorn, his scalp raw and red under rough blond chaff. He hadn't touched Leia, but he was leering at her as he leaned across her table, into her face, resting all his weight onto his thick fists. Behind him two of his sniggering friends, Biff and Greedy, cut off her potential path. Leia had never seen Theo so unaccompanied—he must have lost some acolytes after the race—and she thought, with glassy calm, that she'd also never seen him quite so ugly as now, small eyes tight, big block teeth hard and wet.

"Where's your pansy cousin?"

Leia didn't answer.

"Where's the bastard orphan?"

She didn't plan to say it. It was just the fact. "Han is my husband."

She could almost hear the gears grinding in Theo's head, he came to such a jarring halt, everything in his face seeming to constrict. Biff and Greedy gasped in a way so incongruously gossipy that it would have ordinarily made Leia laugh. The three burly men were so shocked, she half-expected a needle to drag, the band to stop playing, the tent to collapse.

"But." Theo said, at last. "We—"

"No." Leia said savagely. "No we. Just Han and me. We got married. Han is my husband."

"Solo...can't. You." Theo poked a thick, short finger at her, and Leia thought, a bit dizzily, _that is not at all the Han Solo pointer._ "You? No. Solo can't have—"

Theo's lip was actually trembling. Leia remembered, then, when they were neighbor children, how petulant and sad Theo used to get when she or Luke wouldn't immediately yield whichever toy they had. He'd sit down and howl, right in the middle of the elaborate playground Erin Isolder had built in her back yard after Theo's father died, when Theo was five. To cheer the boy up, she'd said to Breha, with what Leia had known even then was impatience. He had swings, slide, climbing gym, a ride-on mechanical lion that Luke thought was _everything_ and still Theo would scream for Luke's die-cast cars, or Leia's skipping rope. Luke, being Luke, would share, try to comfort Theo, try to get them to all play together. But Leia didn't. Leia wouldn't. Leia refused, because she knew Theo didn't want to share; he wanted to take, he wanted to keep, he would never give Luke's toys back. And even before Leia had learned to swear, or met her future husband, she shared an essential philosophy with a then-unknown Baltimore orphan: _Fuck that._

She'd thought, let Theo scream. And he did. Screamed, cried, turned every kind of red. Sometimes he'd beg Luke and Leia for what they had.

Sometimes he'd hit them.

Now Theo's familiar face, always mildly dumb at best, malicious and sneaky at worst, was contorted with spite and rage and shock—and yes, Leia both read it in his affect and felt it, just before Theo spluttered it: a cheated hatred that was grotesquely sexual. "Did you fuck him?"

"I'm not a toy," Leia said, her voice strong but shaking with her own anger. "I'm not something of yours Han took."

Theo stepped forward, his face red and slick in the low, hot lights. _Losing in front of everyone made him crazy,_ Leia realized. _He's lost again._ _And now he has to take something back._ Behind her table, behind her expressionless face, Leia felt a trickle of fear but a surge of wrath. _How dare you,_ she thought at him, as hard as she could, thought it and felt it so hard that vocalizing her fury seemed superfluous. _How dare you_ _ **want**_ _to make me feel afraid._ _How dare you need that from a woman._ On some strange instinct Leia snaked her hand under the table and grasped an empty bottle left on the bench beside her. Something had whispered to her, in Luke's calm voice, that it was there.

"Miss," a man sitting with his date nervously asked from the table next to hers, "is everything—"

Theo silenced the slighter man with a flat look, jaws bulging as they ground a wad of gum. Leia felt no anger for the other man as he got up and fled, only a distant compassion. Theo's cronies tripped the man as he went, leered at his date, a blonde who began to scream at them. It was hard, sometimes, for everyone, Leia thought, as the bad band launched into Jerry Lee Lewis, as she shifted her grip on the bottle in her lap. Not everyone reached their fight locus; not everyone had the love to help them locate it. She tested the cheap table's bevel with her fingertips—raw and sharp. Good word, bevel, Leia thought, remembering Han drawing her fingers over the satiny edge of their kitchen counter, grinning proudly at her. _Here's a new word for that big tool-kit in your head, Princess._

Leia stood so suddenly that she jostled the taut canvas, sending flutters through the cloth up to the ceiling. She brought the bottle down on the table in a shower of green glass, letting Theo see the jagged edge.

Around Leia came more screams, shouts, gasps. Theo betrayed his instinctive fear of her by drawing back—not much, but just enough to be a clear flinch that he tried to compensate for with a braying laugh. But Leia had seen it, his fear, and knew he knew it. He lunged tauntingly at her. Leia gave him a cold smile, her teeth closing on each hot, fast word. "Are you sure, Theodore? You know how your mother feels about scars."

Theo looked truly hurt, opening his mouth—and then, behind him, Greedy went down in a shower of his constant snacks, popcorn, Milk Duds, Red Hots exploding like celebratory confetti. There was wailing from someone in the crowd: "He hit him first! That cowboy hit him—"

Leia couldn't see what happened next, if Greedy got hit again, if Biff got hit, or if they ran, but there was an explosion of hungry gasps and calls from the gathering crowd, thrilled and appalled, and Theo had lost his henchmen. Theo turned. The group, starved for spectacle, opened at its far end to admit someone, as though to an arena, then closed again. Theo bent slightly at the waist, thick shoulders drawing up to his ears. This was Theo, Leia knew, at his meanest, most violent. But it was Han who, stalking forward, radiated danger. His eyes moved quickly to gauge her safety and location; instinctively Leia darted out from behind her table to go to him, not for protection but in allegiance. "Leia. _No._ " Han barked. Her movement drew the eye of Theo Isolder, who lunged again at her, making the nasty crowd hiss its titillation. And then Han's lips—one of his features Leia loved most, by turns wry, gentle, arrogant, hurt, incredulous, adoring, sinful—got a surly, brutish twist that she'd never seen; that, and his eyes blazing pure copper, was the only warning before Han's right fist met Theo's nose so fast and hard Leia heard the crack before her eye registered the impact.

Almost coolly Han shook out his hand, advancing on Theo as the blond staggered back, coughing his own blood. Han didn't approach at a run, neither at his customary lope; his long stride was curt, businesslike, taking him to Theo just as Theo found his feet.

It wasn't like a fight in the movies, which was where Theo had learned to throw sloppy punches that spent their velocity in showy arcs. Han was more efficient, grittier. Theo had never learned that he couldn't really fight, after years of hitting much smaller, helpless opponents. Han was big, and kept up his hands; his strikes were short, hard, vicious, quick; throughout he was expressionless, all his energy and emotion concentrated in his fists. Only one punch landed on Han, a glancing hit high on the cheek, and this seemed only to sharpen Han's terminal resolve. Han's left hand shot out, fingers wrapping into the crew neck of Theo's sweater and twisting, tightening the collar like a garrotte so Theo couldn't turtle out and free. With that left hand Han pushed enough to rock Theo off-balance, and then Han jerked Theo sharply forwards, off his feet, as he threw his right fist. The impact rearranged the bottom half of Theo's face. Theo made a terrible wet sound and collapsed across a table.

Han leaned over the blond man, pointing his finger, now grimed with blood, into his ruined face. "Stay down."

Theo tried to stand. Han hit him again, this time three speedy mean shots to the body that made Theo thrash, soundless and spasmodic and wide-eyed, like a fish. "Stay _down,_ motherfucker. I mean it."

Han straightened to his full height, a trickle of blood working down from near his left eye, his hat gone and his hair wild. His white shirt was torn open and hanging around his chest, which was working like a furious bellows, allowing him air now that the fight was settled. He let Theo roll from the table to the sawdust, and then Han rested his foot against Theo's ribs—not a kick, and not with dangerous weight, just enough to make the blunt threat of boot leather.

"Keep away from my wife," Han said, with savage precision, even through his heaving breaths. "Keep away from Leia, or I will fuckin' kill you."


	45. Chapter 45

Author's Note: Short transitional update today. Back to bulk, multiple updates—and more action—next time, when the work project that is trying to eat my life will be all wrapped up (no, I'm not running for President of the United States—though I kinda like to imagine some prospective world-stage leader unwinding with a little Han/Leia fic). As always, you readers are a wonderful life treasure, and your input thrills and inspires, emboldens and challenges me. And maybe gets me a little misty sometimes. More soon, darling peoples. Xo!

XXXXXXXXXX

Han couldn't stop demanding Leia's answer. He'd asked her in the tent, as he eased the broken bottle from her fingers. He'd asked her as they ran, hand in hand, across the fairground to Millie. He had asked her as he hurled their bags into the back of the truck, then boosted Leia up to the cleared seat. He asked her when he slid in beside her and seized her chin, squeezing the words between hard, shallow, urgent kisses. It didn't matter how many times Leia answered in the affirmative, Han didn't seem to believe her. Or could he not receive what she was saying? It was like, Leia distantly thought, there was some hectic frequency disrupting his hearing, or her speech.

Now Han asked her again as he drove down the highway, fast and precise, Millie's headlights cutting into the night. His control of the truck was reflected in the tightness of his voice. "Are you all right? Leia. Leia. Are you all right?"

Leia had returned to herself, at this point, enough to answer more than _yes_. "No one hurt me, Han. No one touched me." Han nodded, his jaw clenching. "Alright," Han muttered. "Okay. Alright." Still he pulled Leia firmly under his right shoulder, broad hand palming her skull, her neck, spanning her collarbones and ribs, running down her waist to her hip and back up as though to reassure himself of Leia's wholeness. After several cycles of this Han settled for stroking her hair, over and over. Through his wrist, pressed at her temple, Leia could feel Han's rapid pulse. Something under his skin hummed hotter than normal, like he'd tapped into an alternate power source.

"Are you? All right?" Leia whispered it against his chest, bared to the waist by his torn shirt. Hush felt necessary here in the near-dark, in the faint green dashboard light. Han stiffened, as though merely her question threatened them. Carefully, Leia unlooped Han's arm from her shoulders, probing his hand gingerly with her thumbs. Han's body so tautened alongside her that Leia braced herself to find injury to his beautiful, capable fingers. She was surprised to find them fine, only the skin on his knuckles split, bleeding. But Han's hand was shaking. The large, work-roughened hand that Leia knew intimately as reverent, inventive, avid, seeking; the hand Leia had just watched wreak hell for her was trembling in her own hands, in her lap.

Han's knuckles throbbed with the telltale give of Theo Isolder's jaw. His thoughts were locked in the feral logic that had remained shockingly accessible: someone tries to hurt you, steal from you, you put them down. Primitive? Yes. Effective? _Yes._ Here they were, almost back in New Hope, and Han doubted Isolder had staggered up from the sawdust yet.

Han had never felt punitive in a fight before. He'd always been committed to a definitive finish, sure; there was no point to fighting back if you weren't mean enough to make 'em all think twice. But hurting Theo Isolder, Han had liked _._ As he hit and hit that son of a bitch, Han had kept a reckoning: _This is for Lookout Point._ For trying to quell qualities in Leia that awed Han into mute adoration. _Fucker._ For presuming to own her: _Leia_ , Leia who was resplendently herself, whose essence was her fierce self-possession. For posing threat to the woman Han loved. Han ground his teeth against the raw panic that still roiled in him to think of Leia, cornered. Oh, it would have been easy, Han knew, so fucking easy to keep hitting Isolder long past the point—

Han's anger had been for Luke, too. That last shot to Isolder's solar plexus was paralytic on its own, Han knew from dual-ended experience. He hadn't had to deliver it in triplicate. But Han had flashed on the kid, taking Isolder's beating for bravely protecting Leia on the beach. Isolder had beaten Luke, who was so much smaller, an artist, not a football player; _Luke Skywalker_ , who smiled on the world even hitching in lousy weather. _Guess what, prick. That kid found himself a mean new brother._

Unconsciously Han gnawed his lower lip, a boyhood habit. He used to do it in his sleep; the soft flesh would be raw by dawn, if he couldn't stop it. No, no: Han didn't regret Theo's shattered nose, his broken jaw. He hoped the quarterback would be throwin' footballs through a straw, but—but, a sick dissonance was creeping into his sense of wrath. Tonight, it almost made Han gag to think it, Corell Home had overlapped his life with Leia. When Han had sworn to himself that nothing from his past would ever touch her. Yet there he was, right in front of Leia in that goddamned tent, ugly and brutal as he'd ever been as a half-starved teenager.

He'd do it again, forever, to protect her. But the price was exposure to her—and not in the hot, close way he'd been last night, on the chaise. No, now Han was fixed in a cold, diamond beam, lighting him hard and sharp in places where, over this euphoric month, Han had been softly shaded even to himself. He began a slow, tortured contortion of his wrist, trying to subtly free his shaking hand from Leia's grip.

Leia held on.

The atmosphere between them took on sudden, thrumming weight. Leia sensed, behind Han's impassive face, that same battening-down triggered by her interest in his mother: as though Han was racing between private, interior rooms, slamming shutters against some looming storm. The fight they'd had that night on their new couch had never truly been resolved, Leia realized. Han had gathered her in his lap, begun to kiss her, conciliatory but soon with heat and the conflict had been lost to their sure, inherent pull on one another.

Leia held tighter.

"I know how to throw a punch without breakin' my hand, Leia." Han's tone was jocular, but marked with the warning mockery that Leia knew both signalled and shielded his insecurities. He was breathing too fast. Remembering Starwood's aftermath, Leia clutched his hand in her left, using her right to open the glove compartment and find the flask. Han shook his head, pressing his lips together like a child refusing medicine.

"You're shaking, Han. You need—"

"Don't tell me what I need." Even Han looked startled by his terseness. Leia inhaled. Han tried, too late, to be playful, squeezing her hand. "Hey...it's me. You think some fistfight is gonna send me into shock?"

But Han's quick, angled smile didn't reach his eyes; the constriction of his fingers on hers failed to feign their sensitive balance of give and take. Worst of all, Han's voice held a reassurance so casual that it verged on condescension. As though her concern for him was...was neurosis, Leia thought with rising hurt and indignation. Was Han so frightened by vulnerable connection that he would frame her caring this dismissive way, to dissuade it? Did he think—Leia closed her eyes in frustration. She knew him! She knew how he genuinely spoke to her, smiled at her, touched her. Leia knew his body, knew how it carried him in the world. _She knew Han Solo._ After all their closeness, did Han truly think he could fool her?

Opening her eyes, Leia trained them uncompromisingly on Han. He kept his own eyes straight ahead. When he slowed the truck Leia assumed he'd done it to downshift, as an excuse to blamelessly pull his hand from hers, but they'd reached the turnoff for Alder Glen. As Han slotted the stick into third gear, there came a long, metallic rattle, the staccato vibration of the gearshift worse than ever. Millie's new tremor—whether in sympathy with Han or in testimony—seemed an echo of her master's shaking hand. Han and Leia both stared at the stick, and then their eyes met: Leia's in frank concern, Han's stricken before he hid this reaction behind obliqueness.

He poked his bleeding index finger at the gearshift. His grin was barbed, wild and obstructive as a bramble thicket. "Now, this ain't nothin'."

"Han."

Han's left hand twitched on the steering wheel, where it normally held so steady. His right dragged through his hair, streaking sandy brown with unheeded blood. He went on talking over her, faster, louder, explaining mechanics, insisting on the message that _he_ was reassuring _her_. As though it was the transmission Leia was concerned with. Or the split knuckles. As though their last conflict had truly been about having children. This was another reframing of an underlying issue that Han could refute, without getting close to the painful truth. She wondered if he even knew he was doing it.

Finally Han cut assessing eyes to Leia, giving a hissing exhalation when he saw he was failing to persuade her. "Look, I'm fine." His fingers rasped along his jaw, as though he could gauge, there, the damage he'd inflicted on another. Han's expression was, Leia thought, somehow compassionate for her in its dismissal of himself. He redoubled his jittery reasoning. "You don't know, Princess, so it seems like I...but, I can handle—you don't know where I. What I. What I've..." Han trailed off in a kind of horror, and Leia understood he'd strayed from an emotional path, talked them into some morass he'd thought he was ushering her swiftly past.

"You're right, I don't know." Her voice was soft. "Tell me."

As he turned into their driveway, Han contracted and opened his quaking right hand in impatience, futility, disgust, like it was malfunctioning machinery. He shook out his hand, then shook it out harder.

"You could tell me, Han. You can."

He pulled Millie up beside the cabin and cut the engine, plunging them into darkness. Reaching out for her beloved sense of Han, his blazing, loving imprint on her universe, Leia felt only an anguished buzzing.

"You can tell me anything." Her hand, gentle and insistent, sought his hidden face. "You can trust me, Han. I know you—"

In the dark Han closed his eyes, almost yielding into her touch, so cool and soothing on his cheekbone. But inside him, then, that vicious past-voice hissed and barked, in exorcism or exultation. Shying away, Han opened the driver's side door, springing the overhead light. When he turned back to Leia, his bruised, handsome face was thrown into stark relief.

"You haven't known me _that_ long, Sweetheart."

Han stepped out into the night. He shut the door in his wake, not hard, but sharp. The dome light cut out, leaving Leia in shock. Han would break a man who threatened her, but could not accept her comfort? Next she felt a surge of hurt, rage. He was doing it again. Putting that slant on a loving word. As though he'd never said it into her hair, her neck, her bare breasts in his own warm, secret, helpless voice. Sweetheart, _Sweetheart._ How Leia burned and thrilled to it, the way Han pressed her private title against her flesh. It was precious to her; it had replaced so much she'd lost. To hear that word repossessed by the callous tongue of the stranger from Starwood—

Leia flung herself out of the cab into chilly air, leaving her door open, the truck's interior light illuminating a slim column along Millie's side. She marched down this tunnel of cool light to where Han leaned over the side of the truck, collecting bags and packages from the back. "Han!"

Han pivoted with almost military correctness and set Leia's overnight bag at her feet. "Yes, Your Highnessness?"

She ignored his old provocative, self-protective tactic. "You think I'm upset, about what you did to Theo."

He sucked his lower lip between his teeth and reached again into the truck's bed, dropping his duffel with a carelessness that he hadn't treated her own luggage with. When Han turned back to her and spoke, his voice was abraded with restraint. "If he hurt you, Leia, I'da put him in the ground." He jerked a thumb at himself. "I still might."

"So _I'm_ supposed to be sent into shock?" She threw his words back at him. "I put a burning stick into Theo's face, to save Luke's life. I was going for his eye, but I missed. Tonight I had a broken bottle, Han, and if Theo had taken one step closer I would have stuck him with it anywhere I could reach." Leia thrust up her chin. "Don't you dare treat me like I'm some, some... _ornament_."

"Ornament...?" Han's face flooded with pained outrage. He bent at the waist, into her space, and pointed into her upturned face. "No. That's _not_ it." He seethed the next words hard and fast. "I love you. So I don't want _you_ to protect _me,_ get it?"

Leia saw something flicker across Han's expressive face, then, that both pierced her heart and afforded her the relief of a solved riddle. She'd wanted to know, and now she did. This— _this_ was the last of Han's mercenary streak. This was where his selfishness had gone to hide, now that it was no longer required for his bodily survival: avariciousness not for money, but for love, for safety. In the structure of their relationship, Han demanded to be the sole agent of devotion. He wanted to love Leia, and not risk letting her love him back.

Now Leia wondered if what she'd once taken for bravado wasn't really a kind of protective absence. Because right now, behind his combativeness, Han Solo was terrified. Oh, he certainly had courage, Leia knew. But they had moved, over this first married month, into deeper intimate wilderness, requiring reserves of trust to navigate. Leia's stores of love had been replenished since infancy; Han's had been abbreviated. How bad must his early life have been, how starved of tenderness, that to let her in caused him such pain?

Han couldn't hold Leia's intent gaze. Instead he watched ugly scenes flicker on his internal screens. The Han Solo slouching across his memories was a chancer, a hustler, licentious, a scrapper; he'd have gone to that shady life, in the end, fallen into it full-time. Fallen? Hell. Eventually he would have strolled into it, hands shoved in his pockets, whistling.

But not anymore. Not since Leia. Not anymore. That first day, his birthday, she'd called him a mercenary with the damning regal precision only Leia could muster. And Han, heart-struck for life, had set out to strip that self away, to reveal the new, sound man fit to love Leia Organa. It had hurt. He'd wrested pieces of that Han Solo off every day for the last three months and it had _hurt._ But the new man had been rewarded. The reward had been more than he could have possibly imagined—and when it came to Leia Organa, Han had imagined quite a bit.

Han's face twisted. All that desperate aspiration to be better, to belong. To be a good man, a working man, to be _her_ man. To be her husband. When all along that rough youth waited just underneath, ready to knock out teeth rather than take a beating. Who refused to lose anything else in a life set in motion by bereavement. It hadn't been the earnest, ardent lover Han had summoned, tonight, in that tent. Not the delirious newlywed that he'd set loose and rampant in their life. In Leia's life. It had been the ruthless boy. _Loveless boy,_ that cruel inner voice leered from Han's subconscious.

"I do know you, Han," Leia said. "I _married_ you."

His response was plaintive, instinctive. "You had to."

Han was stunned he'd said it—it was more like he heard it from the mouth of someone else. But it was out, and Leia's eyes flared with such insight that he felt hideously transparent. He opened his mouth, but Leia set her jaw in her own brand of furious empathy. She pressed past him and around the truck, placing her foot on Millie's rear bumper and hoisting herself into the back. It wasn't an easy scale in her skirt, with her small frame, but she was typically, maddeningly resolute.

"Leia! What the hell are you—"

She held up a hand to him, rummaging in her shopping bags, her pretty face fierce. He almost howled at her. "It's too dark to be climbin' all ov—Princess!"

Leia ignored him.

Han threw his arms out to his sides, torn shirt pulling away from his bare chest in bloodied drapes. "If you think I'm just gonna stand around while you break your..." Fuming, he braced a boot against Millie's rear tire and swung himself up into the truck bed. "Leia, Leia, wouldja just—"

Leia found what she wanted, straightened and turned to face him. In her hands was a small parcel wrapped in red paper. She wasn't angry anymore, and this sent a bolt of fear into Han's marrow; Leia looked calm. She looked decided.

"Do you know why I never wanted to marry anyone, Han? It's not that I was cold, like people said, or couldn't imagine falling in love, or never wanted a family of my own...yes, maybe even children. It wasn't even so I could have a career, though that's what I thought, up until you, that it was one or the other, love or work." Leia's eyes were hot and dark and strong, and her voice was even. It was Han's breathing that was erratic."The reason I didn't want to marry is I know my own mind. More than anything I know my own mind. I won't be told what to think. And some people don't want that. Some people need you to be an object: Theo, his mother, Horm; my—my own mother. But you weren't like that, Han. You're not like that. You wouldn't _want_ me like that."

Leia tucked the package under her arm and moved neatly over Millie's closed tailgate, onto the bumper and down to the gravel. Slinging her travel bag over her shoulder, Leia strode towards the cabin, the porch lit by the light they'd left on, the cheery lantern Leia had chosen and Han had affixed beside the door. Han vaulted over the side of the truck, into her path. Leia didn't break her stride, so he walked backwards, facing her, gravel crunching under his boots. He held up his hands, opened them, let them fall useless to his sides. His mouth opened, closed. He felt an urgent need to communicate something to her; he couldn't seem to speak. What Leia thought of him was out of his control, now, Han saw. There was nothing he could do to repair it.

Leia stopped walking, so Han stopped too.

"Do you think I'm stupid?" Leia asked, quietly.

Han could barely get the words out. "Of course not."

"Weak? Gullible? Foolish? Deluded?"

"Jesus. _No._ "

"Capable of deciding what I think? Know? Feel?"

"Yes. You? _You?_ Yes."

"I love you." Leia's voice held an ultimatum.

"I." Han choked. "I know."

She resumed her unhurried walk forward. "No, you don't."

Han began to walk again too, still backward. His forehead furrowed above the plaintive arch of his eyebrows. "Yeah, I—"

Patiently Leia shook her head. "You know I _believe_ I love you," she said, "but you think I'm wrong. You think I don't really know you; that there's something I'm missing, something you've hidden, and when I find it—and you know I'll find it, don't you, because _you_ know _me_ —I'll realize you've been a sham all along."

Han stopped heavily in the gravel; his gut gave an affirmative, almost violent strum. He reached instinctively behind himself, touching cedar. They'd come now to the porch, and Han grasped a post for support; something real, something he'd built. He felt, now, like he might be sick, as though a fever was peaking, or something festering in his soul had ruptured.

Leia stepped closer. "You don't get to control how I think, or how I feel—not even about you."

In the golden porch light Han saw Leia's glorious hair was in disarray, glowing fuzzily around her head, slipping its braid. Han felt sweat break between his shoulder blades.

"It isn't just you who gets to do the loving and I'm the loved. Because that makes me an object, Han. I know you don't mean it like that but it does." She put the parcel into his wounded hand. "This is for you. I was saving it for Christmas, but I want you to have it now."

Han's lips were too numb to shape words—he reached for her, but Leia held him at gentle remove, her fingers splayed against his chest in warm evasion. She went lightly up the steps, unlocked the cabin door, then looked back. "I chose it because it seemed like you—as I saw you when I married you. As I still see you. As I always will." Now Leia's voice shook slightly. "But you have your own mind, too. So it's you, Han, who decides. Do I know you enough to love you, or not?"

Leia turned and went inside, closing the door firmly behind her.

XXXXXXXXXX

On instinct Han carried the parcel to the workshop, though it was cold out there in the deep blue night. In the short glow from the oil lamp he unfastened the paper at its taped seams; to tear it seemed crude, somehow disrespectful. The box that emerged was rich brown leather, and slid apart like a single drawer. When he saw what was nestled inside, some blockage in Han's chest seemed to burst open into heat and light, immolating that punishing internal voice. _This_ was how she saw him? Seated on the edge of the worktable, Han closed his eyes against their stinging tingle, pressing his trembling lips together. Han Solo felt like a complete bastard. He also felt, for the first time in his life, deeply and truly treasured.

The knife gave off off a good, rich gleam. Its handle was polished maple, but with a thread of burl, a natural scarring in the satiny wood. Han loved how the burl's rough seam caught just so in his palm, an intriguing flaw that somehow highlighted the knife's beauty and utility. He sat there a long time in flickering lamplight, turning the knife over in his hands. It was perfect, perfect. Exactly right, weighted and sized and curved as though to fit only his grip. Blades of varying sizes and thicknesses, precisely the correct attachments, nothing useless or flashy. The little tools smoothly fit and sliding, slotted into accessible place. The knife was faultlessly honed, tempered, action-minded; sharp as fuck. Exactly what Han would have chosen for himself—only she had. _She_ had.

Han shook his head, heavy with emotion: shame, gratitude, disbelief, boundless love. He would have designed his ideal knife just like this, to just these standards—as tool, weapon, even aesthetic object. But Han couldn't have imbued it with the passionate energy it had, that he could feel in his hand: the spark of love that gave it a kind of life, that made of the knife not merely a gift but a talisman. The knife was charged with Leia's love and regard and perception. Her attraction to him. Her intuitive understanding, her valuation. The girl who knew everything knew what he liked, all right, Han thought, choking on a watery laugh. But it was more than that. All on her own, Leia Organa had sourced and found some last, lost piece of himself, snapping it back into its aching gap.

How Han loved that tiny, dauntless woman. How he wanted to break down, now, under the weight of emotion. But Han couldn't break down; in his chest and eyes and throat there was a painful, stinging pressure, as though something was dammed up. Broken, stuck. Maybe he couldn't fix that, Han thought, with regret. He bared a blade one-handed, flicked it shut, thrilling at the quick, secure click. God, it felt right. The knife felt like his own limb, an organic extension. Maybe Leia, with her store of words, would say _touchstone_ , but Han knew that word in a literal sense—as a material to gauge the worth of gold, its grinding test. To get to what was underneath.

Was it even worth the breath to lie to himself, Han wondered, hadn't he done that enough back when he insisted he didn't love her? Wasn't it an equal lie to pretend he didn't already need her, wasn't hopeless just watching her read, walk, think, speak? Had he been in control with her, ever? Han turned the knife in his hands, pieces meeting and meshing, seeing how it all fit and split apart. Admiring the tool these parts made on their own and imagining the things he could use it to make, the things that could be altered, fixed.

 _You are afraid,_ Han's own mind voice broke in, only this time it sounded more like Chewie than like him.

"Well...yeah, pal," Han drawled back, aloud, acknowledging this fact for the first time since he'd been a tiny child. Testing himself, trying it alone first, taking a practice flight. He almost smiled—maybe he did, a bit, or at least his lip twitched, the admission was such an uncomfortable fit. But it was the truth, and that was, somehow, what Han knew Leia wanted. What they needed, to make this run. Something clicked in Han's heart and brain and soul, then, in his own practical language. The beloved machine of him-and-Leia, their marriage, their shared heart as his life's great propulsive engine, needed a part to make it fly. He'd have to perform a conversion on himself.

Han was afraid to let Leia in, to trust her enough to see him and not leave him, to trust himself to not let her down. But he would try. He lifted his chin in stubborn, sudden pride: none of his incarnations—not the orphaned boy, not the ladies' man and not the soldier, not the docker, the mercenary, the handyman; not the hotshot driver, not Leia Organa's rescuer—no version of Han Solo was a coward. And this new man, who both contained and transcended all the persistent others: Leia's husband would not be a coward, either.

Han swiped a hand across his burning eyes, sucked in a wavering breath. Closed his fingers around the knife; it seemed to pulse with energy, with warmth. _Okay. All right._ Han nodded to himself. Damn it, Han Solo had never been afraid of _work._

XXXXXXXXXX

Han stood in the open bathroom doorway, soft-edged in ragged hanks of steam. A lock of hair fell across his forehead. Han didn't lean, as he normally did in doorways, scanning space with his shrewd impudence; his face wasn't wry or detached or teasing; he stood on the threshold, squared and staring at Leia. He was grimy, bloody, torn, bruised. His green eyes were yearning, but he was not begging; there was no pretension, no shame, no apology. Han projected his same staunch presence, but she could feel a new willingness.

In the bath, Leia opened her arms to him. Han's smile broke beautifully across his face, but he hesitated, glancing down at his bedraggled state.

"It's not holy water, Flyboy," Leia said dryly. She softened her voice. "Come on. Come in. Come to me."

Han shed his trousers, let fall his ruined shirt. She watched, warm and honest and admiring. His look back was level and unselfconscious as he shucked his underwear and stood straight, strong and easy in his beautiful body. The tub's fixtures were old-fashioned, set into the wall above the long side of the tub, and so Han sank into the water facing Leia, arranging his long legs with hers. His eyes slid shut in grateful bliss at the touch of the hot water and her skin; he dragged wet hands over his face and through his hair. Leia could almost see the adrenaline and fatigue rinse from Han along with the blood, the smudged dirt and slivers of chipped wood. The self-disgust.

Han closed his eyes, rested his head on the lip of the tub. His fingers found hers under the water. Leia rose to her knees and straddled him, resting on the shoals of his abdominal muscles—not with sexual intent, simply for closeness. Han made a grateful, welcoming sound, his hands stealing to span Leia's back. She rested her cheek on the top of his head.

"You said you'd protect me," Leia said. "You did."

She ran her thumb over his scar, as though in acknowledgement of the history that had equipped him. Han stared at Leia; he didn't know where to start. His first memory of the home, that bleak cold night? His first fight, his first lay, his first knife? The laundry shifts, the cane in his face? Korea, Millie? How it felt on the docks, the way you had to learn to walk on the slick planks? Wins and losses, Chewie, frostbite?

How the hell did you sum up a life?

Leia knew how. That was what she did, but the way Leia chose from and arranged her hoard of words—that wasn't Han, it could never be him. He made a thwarted sound. But Leia drew him to her, running her hands through his thick wet hair, darkening it, stroking it back. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her closer. With his face against her lovely, full, sheltering chest, he tried again. Han closed his eyes and stepped into faith, breath he wasn't aware he'd been holding leaving him in a rush.

"Sweetheart." Han's words came so softly they were more a shaping of air than audible sound. But they were there, real, honestly meant; Leia felt them there, against her breasts, where Han Solo had always spoken only helpless truth. "I need you."


	46. Chapter 46

Author's Note: Oh hai there! So, it turns out strep throat is a total jerk, and a pile of business writing is not much better except they don't give you any money for feeling like your throat has been lined with flaming gravel, so I'll take the work. Finally feeling better and on a holiday break, and so we resume our adventures on the long-running soap of New Hope, Indiana (brought to you by the makers of NyQuil). I'm so very grateful for any of you still with me here, and will see you soon with more developments. Xo!

XXXXXXXXXX

October 26, 1956. Kes Dameron's kid brother, Paul, had signed up for a freshman work-study program at New Hope High School. Shara and Leia thought this was wonderful at first, only to become incensed when they learned the initiative was open only to boys. When Shara called Principal Knowles to complain, he told her that the school already provided sufficient work training for girls: Home Economics.

"Can you believe it?" Leia demanded of Han that evening as she drained the boiled potatoes, averting her face from the bath of steam. "Knowles, that relic! He was like that when we were there, too."

"Kes was tellin' us that Shara went atomic." Han reached above Leia's head to snap on the little transistor he'd hung on a hook from a cupboard. Pointing at its speaker in stern approval of "Be Bop A Lula," Han missed Leia's swift, barbed look.

"...atomic?"

"Like the Nevada desert, to hear him tell it." Han chuckled, ruefully. "Poor Dameron."

"Oh, I see." Leia placed a hand on the hip of her fitted navy trousers. "Did _poor Dameron_ tell you the rest of that story?"

Turning from the stove, Han peered warily down at his wife. Chin raised, Leia stared mulishly back, but soon her natural impatience ended their stalemate. "...where he told Shar he didn't want her to get, and I quote, _all madded up_ —"

"Well hell," Han cut in. "It's gotta be hard, right, what with Shara feelin' sick and upset all the..." He glanced at Leia. "Uh." Han coughed. "Kes says it's kinda...a roller coaster..."

Leia's eyelashes were doing that fluttery thing that Han once thought flirtatious back before he truly knew her, back when all he did was dare her under the guise of banter. Back before he understood that Leia wasn't coy—mischievous, yes, but also direct, which was immeasurably sexier to him than artifice. The rapid batting of those thick lashes? _That_ , Han now understood, was Leia's warning tell, like the rattle of a snake (fuck those things though), only much cuter. Not that Han would ever _say_ that to her, when she was pissed.

The eyelashes meant he'd already said enough.

"Ah, yes," Leia's smile was acerbically girlish. "The trials of pregnancy: one brave man's story."

"Now hang on, that's not—" Han gestured with his spatula, and kind of got why Chewie waved one around. "Kes _meant_ for her! He meant it's hard _for her!_ "

"It sure is," Leia said, so amiably that Han's mind-voice howled, _It's a trap!_

But Han's mouth was already running. "So, that's hard for Dameron too, right? 'Cause of how much he—Jesus, can you fault a man for giving a damn?" He gave the spatula another, speculative shake. Yeah, definitely had an authoritative effect. "It's his wife and kid!"

"Han, I like Kes. Very much," Now Leia's tone was edgily precise. "I know he's a good man who loves my friend—"

She leaned around Han's waist to pull the potato masher from the crockery jar on the counter. Han wondered if mashers beat spatulas in the utensil armament. He had a sudden memory from the Corell Home exercise yard: betting sticks of Wrigley's on rock, paper, scissors. The best thing, though, for him was climbing, nimble and alone, to the top of the single elm; from there Han could look into the sky or out over the city. Han tilted his head. Maybe that was something he could tell Leia, later. Seemed to fall under the heading of what she'd called _letting her in,_ without getting too gritty.

"—but what Kes is forgetting is that _he_ gets to stay himself in all this, while she—"

"No, c'mon." Han groused, adjusting the flame under the cast-iron pan. "He's havin' a kid too."

"That's...interesting phrasing." Leia narrowed her eyes. "You can't be saying it's the same."

"Good damn thing I _ain't_ sayin' it's the same," Han retorted. "'Course it's not. But it's not nothin' for a guy, neither." A muscle in Han's jaw twitched as he pictured, just under his consciousness, a tall, faceless stranger slouching out of a Baltimore tenement. Drifter, sailor; gangster; travelling salesman? _Just out for a drink, Jainey. Back in a wink._ "Heavy gig all around, is all I'm—"

"But it's not 'all around'." Leia countered, opening the pale blue refrigerator. "The baby isn't due until March, but Shara still had to leave nursing school last month. She was top of her class! Of course she's upset." Rising on her bobby-socked toes to pluck the milk bottle from the back of a shelf, Leia glanced up to catch Han's eyes on her. He gave her his best shrug, still admiring the flex of Leia's legs in her snug trousers. She gave him a fierce, challenging grin. "How would _you_ like to give up your body _and_ your work for a year? At least?"

Now Han pictured that wiry, athletic boy in the tree, how it would have been for him if that elm had been cut down. How he'd feel now, if he was barred from the hangar. Han furrowed his eyebrows, perturbed, considering what Kes described as bouts of vomiting, frequent weeping. And that was before—before whatever hell women suffered to get the kid out and _then_ the whole keepin' some tiny human aliv—Han shuddered. "Alright." He looked at Leia, lifted a conciliatory palm. "Yeah, I get it. Alright."

At this unexpected concession, Leia huffed the breath she'd drawn to launch her next volley of words. Sometimes, Han could swear Leia was disappointed when he admitted defeat just as she was plotting her next attack. Strict little tactician, Han thought affectionately: Leia wanted not only to win, but also to dictate the terms of his capitulation. But Han operated largely in black and white; when he thought Leia was right, he was man enough to say it. He was also up to wrangle with her all night, when he believed the opposite.

Leia splashed milk into the steaming pot. "Remember what Chewie said: not too much," Han cautioned. She ignored him, brandishing the masher. He knew Leia was irritated with him, though in a particular, electrical, crackling way that could play out decidedly in his favor. Han half-expected her to bring the masher down across the spatula like some saber. Instead Leia held it like a gavel, or scepter. Han didn't even try to stop the smile that crept up the side of his face at her, slow and sweet as blackstrap molasses. _She's the queen of all my dreams,_ the radio confessed in desperate gasps. _You said it, Gene Vincent,_ Han thought back. He wanted to trap his ferocious little wife against the counter. Kneel to kiss her insteps, kiss her kneecaps, push up her sweater; sigh her name into her navel.

"It's so frustrating." Leia mashed the potatoes viciously enough to wake Han from his lustful haze.

"Hey Sweetheart, I think you got them spuds beat—"

"Home Ec is all well and good," Leia muttered, "but it's almost 1957, and _still_ everyone thinks—"

Gesturing at his sizzling pan, Han blinked innocently and asked Leia how she liked her steak.

Leia rolled her eyes, but now she was smiling. Only Han Solo could perform the Home Ec staple task with such smug _maleness_. She pictured Han sewing, then, and snorted softly. He'd probably stitch her an apron with just the same nonchalant competence. No, Leia corrected herself, Han was shameless. He'd sew her a nightdress, then feign shock when it fell to pieces on purpose.

She flicked the end of one of her two long braids at Han's chin. "Not everyone is as nobly rebellious as _you_ , you scoundrel." Leia knew this would rile him. Hardly an idealistic champion, Han remained indifferent-to-suspicious of all humanity that fell outside his own tight sphere of intense allegiance. It was more that bullying imposition of illogical rules, gender or otherwise, forever bridled Han to defiance, even as he retained such laws as supported his personal sense of order. Leia considered the irony that she now adored and appreciated the very orneriness in Han that used to so infuriate her.

"Pssssshhhh. _Nobly rebellious._ " With an incredulous growl, Han reached out to swat Leia's bottom, then squeezed _._ "I like them _pants_ , Your Worship." He ducked to give Leia a hard, open-eyed kiss, smiling when she nipped his lip. "S'no woman jobs or man jobs, just the work. Who's best for the work. Allocation, like in the army. Don't see what it's got to do with my co—"

Cutting Han off with another kiss, Leia slid her hand down his lower back, just under his belt, into the waistband of his black bloodstripes. "I like your pants, too, Hotshot," she breathed into the V of his long-sleeved t-shirt. Han twisted an arm around her to turn off the stove. "The steaks will get cold," Leia pretended to scold, dropping the masher to the counter with a clatter, sinking her fingers in Han's thick hair.

He watched himself wind Leia's braids in his grip, then brought his eyes to hers and his bound hand to her hip, tugging her head gently back. "Hell d'I care about cooking?" Han's eyes gleamed with reckless, affectionate heat. "I'm a _man_."

She opened into outraged laughter, slapping at his shoulder. Han fell upon her, all lips and teeth and whiskers, nuzzling a muffled lyric into her arched neck. _She's my bab—_

Leia's fingers closed on him over his trousers. She smiled to feel Han's breath of surrender.

XXXXXXXXXX

Leia mentioned the high school's biased education policy to other columnists, some of them women, at the _Gazette's_ water cooler. Mon Mothma overheard, and invited Leia into her office, where the older woman held up a manicured finger, lifting her ebony telephone receiver. The editor made a call to Principal Knowles, inviting his students to visit the paper. Mr. Knowles immediately accepted. Smoothly Mon replied, "It's inspiring that you are so progressive in your views, implementing a co-ed work-study program. You are ahead of your time, Mr. Knowles. Perhaps you'd be open to an interview?" Through the phone, Leia could almost hear flattered puffery eclipse Knowles' original prejudices. Mon hung up, giving Leia an elegant, enigmatic smile. "Ready for your first feature, Miss Organa?"

XXXXXXXXXX

Han would have noticed it faster, he thought later, if he hadn't been switched to graveyard shifts. The change was only for the first couple weeks of November, helping to winterize Doc's fleet for the busy Christmas delivery season, but it was enough of a change that it dulled his instincts.

He'd been thrilled for Leia when she hurled herself into his arms that one night in the truck after work, giddy and fierce. She'd got her first real article! It wasn't the front page, Leia added, almost as though to brace him for disappointment in her. It was only a puff profile of the local high school—but it was—it was _her byline,_ Leia said in disbelief, as Han gave a soft whoop and kissed all over her face. They went by Chewie's for supper to celebrate.

And it had been so good, the couple of days off they had together before Han went to night shift. They hung around the house and Leia began her research, revving herself to another gear for her inaugural feature; Han sat with her legs slung across his lap, whittling with his new knife, or tinkering with his new Kodak. But he persuaded her to take a lot of breaks. Because Leia had a new thing, too: reading spectacles, tortoiseshell cat-eyes that sat just so on her pert nose.

Oh, hell. Han _loved_ those.

Yeah, it was good. Pretty good. Pretty fucking spectacularly good and when Leia kissed Han goodbye on the porch as he left for his first overnight shift—his hands on her hips, her pretty face still flushed, one of his thermal shirts thrown over her slip—he'd hated to leave her but as he strode into the dark, Han was whistling.

But their inconsistent hours swiftly altered the sweet rhythms they'd developed as newlyweds. Han's abrupt switch to nights felt like dropping a sudden gear; he couldn't get back up to speed, couldn't make his thoughts and feelings connect. Meanwhile Leia drove herself harder, faster; when Han got home before dawn he often found Leia asleep at the kitchen table, slumped over her notes and pencils. When Han gathered her up to carry her to bed he thought Leia felt lighter, but...that wasn't what a guy asked his wife, was it?

Still, Han told himself it would pass. They were both wrestling the sudden yield of their goals at once. Facing their first career tests, and they would adjust. They would regain their connection, the intimate conversation, the trust that was still rusty for Han but was coming along; he'd never be some stud at talking up his feelings, but he did his best. Ahhh, they'd get it back: their playfulness, the revelatory lust. Right now, they were both too exhausted to really touch—when one was asleep, the other was up, or out of the house. But, in the brief time easing into dawn after Han came home and before Leia awoke, he curled around her in bed and she nestled into him as she always did, and that closeness was good, too, of a different kind.

Until she got up to go to work again.

Soon Han felt it, Leia's work assuming tyrannical power. Soon she had shed vital, undeniable weight from her tiny frame, leaving her cheekbones severely honed. Han discovered Leia was staying at her desk through lunch when Chewie plaintively asked him why she never came in, anymore, for her soup and sandwich. Han suspected she was skipping dinner, too. And when they were in bed together, curled close, Leia slept fitfully—not quite her prior nightmares, but not at all her deep, mild slumber, either.

One morning, as he drifted in the unsatisfactory half-sleep that had to sustain him when he was on nights, Han thought he heard Leia throwing up downstairs. When he asked her about it, Leia blushed and said it was nerves; that day, she was reviewing the first draft of her piece with Mon Mothma herself. After she left, Han reflected to himself that you certainly could get sick from dread—he'd done it himself, in Korea. But he had _shot a man._ It bothered him to think of the terrific significance Leia must be placing on her job performance, if judgement of it made her literally ill.

So concern stole into him, but Han tried to act normal. He'd put a sandwich in front of Leia as she wrote; she'd thank him sweetly, and forget it existed. Even when Han blinked blearily awake in the dark to find Leia in the rocking chair scribbling as though possessed, he kept it light, mumbling "S'goin' on, Princess: you sleep on a pea?" Luke had always said that it was best not to charge Leia's ramparts—whatever a "rampart" was. Although Leia had sure stormed the hell outta _his_. Besides, Leia maintained such a cheery, brisk industriousness that it was tricky to address whatever was going on behind it; her good humor served almost as defense that could be elevated to anger. Han could not see a way to express his worry that Leia's ambition was tilting into obsession without...well, giving her fodder to chew over with Shara.

He kept his cool until one early morning into November. He couldn't sleep so he sat up, arm folded behind his head against the iron bars of their bed, to watch Leia get dressed for work. It was a display Han profoundly enjoyed when she worked on his days off, watching Leia go from their bed warm and bare, wild hair streaming, to flawlessly put-together. He loved to watch Leia clip stockings to garters, step into her shoes, study herself gravely in the mirror until she was tidily braided, bobby-pinned, lipsticked, powdered. Hell, he dug her all buttoned up, especially in the clothes he'd bought her. But the ritual was a delicious torture, because Han could never lure Leia back into bed once she was all kitted out. She'd bend to kiss Han as she left and when he tried his luck, Leia always smiled with teasing regret and said she didn't want to crease her clothes.

"So just...y'know, lose the basics," Han would flirt, wheedle, suggest, sweeping his palms up her stockings in search of the lace under her skirt. "I c'n figure the rest." Angle as he might, tremble as she might, Leia had never actually gone for it. But it was so much fun to try, to watch the pink climb into her face, that it had become their charged private goodbye.

"Forget it, Flyboy. This suit is silk brocade."

"Someday, Sweetheart, I'm gonna persuade you."

Leia would head for the staircase, waving at Han over her shoulder. Groaning, he'd fall back to the mattress in stagy defeat. "One of these days, Your Highness," he'd call after her. "I'm like a safecracker." Han would grin to himself to hear Leia leave the cabin on her wave of laughter. He liked to pursue her, she liked to refuse him; goddamn if it didn't make for real fun later.

But this time, as Leia zipped herself into her charcoal dress, the words _Say, Princess:_ _Priscilla said that one's permanent press_ stalled on Han's tongue as he watched Leia pluck, frowning, at the hanging wool waistline. When Han saw just how loose it was, he sat up straight.

Looking into the mirror, Leia gave her head a small motion—not a shake, more a glide, smooth, controlled. Han thought of the methodical, thorough way Leia used an eraser to cancel an error. She remarked as though to her reflection that her eating habits always changed when she was focused.

"To what?" Han said, his voice carefully steady. "Throwin' up? Quittin' food completely?"

Leia shot him a sour look in the glass. "It's just...stress. It affects me like this." Han hadn't known her, Leia went on as she put on her lipstick, when she was writing a paper in school, or studying for exams. "Ask Shara what I'm like," Leia said, gesturing with her tube of Cherries in the Snow. "Ask Luke." Her testimony stung Han, both because it felt like a lie from the girl who was too brave to be dishonest and also almost a reminder of his outsider status. _Shara and Luke, huh._ But Leia's comment bothered Han most because he knew, now, really knew she loved him and didn't mean to hurt him; it was frighteningly out of character for Leia to be tactless.

Watching Leia run her hands over her dress, Han winced at the absence of wrinkles; impossible to imagine making a joke that could reach her now, she seemed so suddenly remote. "Besides," Leia added, "Maybe that's just how this one fits—"

 _Bullshit._

Han rose abruptly from bed, crossing the wooden floor to her in swift, adamant strides. Startled, Leia turned from her image in the glass.

"Don't gimme that, Sweetheart. I picked out that dress." Han said. "Guessed _then_ how it'd fit you but," He cupped her shoulders, looked frankly at her. "I _know_ , now. Shara and Luke can't say how you are like _that_."

"Han—"

"Fuckin' hell, Leia," he said. "Are you sick?" Han's voice echoed with brusque panic; his eyes were wide and wounded. Leia rebuked herself for her flippancy, thinking of the mother he'd lost to tuberculosis. Maybe somewhere in himself, Han remembered this.

"I'm not, I promise," Leia said. She touched his face. "I'll make more of an effort."

Han looked at her searchingly, not quite able to articulate his sense that Leia's _making_ _more of an effort_ was almost a sickness in itself. He caught her chin, chucked it upwards, then clutched her suddenly close to him. With a little whimper, Leia's hands flattened against his bare back, pressing him closer. "I miss you," Leia murmured, against his chest.

Han held her tighter, rested his cheek on her hair. He was creasing the hell outta Leia's dress, mussing her plaits, probably smudging her makeup and he couldn't stop. "Ah, Sweetheart," Han sighed, almost unable to speak around the knot in his throat. "I—yeah. Yeah, yeah."

Finally Leia pulled back, her eyes warmer, wiping a streak of lipstick from Han's naked shoulder. "I'll set a lunch alarm clock at work."

"Do that, Princess. Or I'll phone whatsisname. Tell him to remind you every hour." There was her smile, tired, but real. Han kept a straight face. "You think I won't."

Leia laughed at last and now Han couldn't help the grin that broke over him to hear that again. "I _know_ you won't, big talker. You won't go within a block of Cecil."

"See, I don't actually hafta," Han said, smoothing a strand of hair behind Leia's ear. "That's the great thing about the phone."

Leia traced his scar with a finger. "You'll _hafta_ at some point, Hotshot. There'll be an office Christmas party, and—" She began to giggle at Han's reflexive grimace. "Remember when we saw him at the movies?"

"Naaah, Sweetheart, I forgot that _he tried to sit between us._ "

Now Leia's laugh was helpless, her forehead falling to his chest.

"He wouldn't stop explainin' the whole movie." Han put on a fussy voice. "Oh, Miss Organa, did you know they filmed this scene in the actual Sahara? The average rainfall in the Sahara is..." Han growled. "Our first time at the movies together, too. I had big plans for me an' you."

She arched an eyebrow. "You _said_ you liked the back row because you're tall."

Han shrugged, grinning at something above Leia's head, managing to appear both sheepish and ruthless. He looked back at her, his eyes suddenly amber and ardent, and pressed his lips to her ear. "Hey, c'mon," he said, his voice suddenly hoarse. "C'mon back to bed."

He didn't try their joke, he played it straight, and Han's hopes flared when Leia stood on the toes of her black pumps to kiss him, deeply, sweetly, pressing herself against him. With a hurt-hungry sound, Han brought his hands to her face; Leia kissed his chin, then, and backed away, her smile rueful. Han's face fell a bit, but Leia seemed like she missed him, at least. She seemed like she missed _them_.

"Go see Chewie," Han half-ordered, half-begged, as Leia crossed the loft towards the stairs. "Today."

"All right, I'll try—"

"Jesus Christ, Leia: No! No trying." Stalking to the head of the staircase, Han wagged a finger down at her in the living room. "I really will phone that robot clown."

Leia smiled, collecting her coat and pocketbook from the back of the couch. "I'll go see Chewie if you go back to bed, Han. You aren't sleeping enough."

"Don't dare me, Princess," Han hollered after her. Leaning over the low loft wall with a diabolical grin, he held an imaginary receiver to his mouth and ear. "Hey Cecil, hi. Miss Organa was wonderin' about New Hope snowfall stats from October 1850 on, and—"

Leia stamped her foot. Han carried on through his bark of laughter.

"—oh, _unabridged._ Definitely unabridged." Leia gave a horrified squeal from the front door. Han waggled his eyebrows at her, nodding. "Yeahhhh, go tell her aaaaallll about it..."

"My God! I'll get a grilled cheese and tomato!" Leia hurriedly called.

"Side of fries!" Han yelled back.

XXXXXXXXXX

There was no point, Han knew, in going back to bed—he couldn't truly sleep in daylight, especially not alone. So he put on his peacoat and went out to the workshop. As he sawed and sanded, Han tried to picture Leia's article as her own piece of handiwork, her process similar to his in that they both hewed to their own rigid standards. Leia's words had to be measured and cut and fit together and polished into some piece of text bigger than she'd ever put together, one she had to put out in public.

She'd think it would have to be perfect, wouldn't it?

Han scratched his jaw, breathing in the tang of woodsmoke drifting down the hill from Ben Kenobi's place. Maybe this was just what it took, for her. And if it was, he'd try to support her. It wasn't so bad.

Except for the part where he missed her, too. Han missed his girl so fucking much his heart hurt like a hot rock in his chest.


	47. Chapter 47

Leia had believed she wouldn't dream of the fire, not anymore. Not since she fell in love, entwined with Han in bed, her warm bulwark against every lurking dread. She'd thought she would never again dream of that drizzly night, of the horribly pretty sparks, of fighting the life-saving restraint of people who loved her. Leia thought she had escaped, forever, the insistent, nonsensical notion that the rain would quench the fire, save her parents before it was too late. But here she was again, in her dreams, babbling at Luke, at Wedge Antilles, at the fire chief, the police: _No, no listen, no no listen listen listen it's raining,_ as though that meant a single damn thing. Insistent talk of rain, of rules desperately invented on the fly. Her logic had seemed sound then, vital, in the living dream-world of devastating shock.

Now Leia saw again tears rolling from Luke's blue eyes—tears she couldn't cry herself Luke had cried for her, good Luke, gifted with and enslaved by his empathy. He shivered so hard it was almost convulsive, but still Luke embraced her, refused to let her race to her parents' pyre. And here was Wedge's lean clever face drained white with horror, but he wouldn't drop the cordon of his arms from her, either. His ducktail was melting in the wet April weather, his hair trailing water into his solemn eyes.

 _It's raining, it's raining, look; they're all right._ She pointed, lectured, even laughed frantic scorn into the faces of these young men she adored. In rejection of the obscene truth: her family, her home up in flames. Explaining away the impossibility, explain explain explain or else she would start to scream and never stop: _Papa, Mama, Mama, Papa._

XXXXXXXXXX

For the first time in months, since all that secret Isolder crap, Han woke to a low, eerie moan. Beside him, curled into a trembling ball, Leia spoke to her father, over and over, in an awful, despairing tone. _Papa. Papa._ Leia flailed against the circle of Han's arms— _Let go Luke let me go_ —and her pain was so real and powerful in the dark that Han caught his breath in a helpless second of stunned respect. Then his arm shot across Leia to the bedside lamp, flooding them both in mellow amber light. Han tried for coaxing, but urgency flayed the determined warmth of his voice.

"Leia. Sweetheart, c'mon back. C'mon, now. Wake—"

But the dream had changed. A spotlight rooted Leia in place on the New Hope High School stage, looking out into a vast, darkened audience. She knew that auditorium, knew that platform; she had crossed it as a student to accept many accolades. But Leia could not accept the prize held out to her by some faceless man, reaching from the shadows. Principal Knowles? Bail? Ben? All Leia knew was that she was frozen. That she hadn't studied for some test.

It wasn't her father onstage, holding the award; no, Leia knew that now, she could feel him out in the audience, where he'd always been, applauding his love and pride. But this time the audience was silent; this time, Leia had failed. She'd failed. Hateful word, failure, Leia had always loathed it, driven herself mercilessly to avoid it, invested it with almost supernatural power. Dreaded failure and its related words in the thesaurus her father gave her, hated all failure's connotations. Failure. Failure. Losing.

Loss.

If Leia failed—she would fail her father, out there somewhere, watching her from the dark. And if she failed him, he was truly lost forever.

Leia's eyes opened. She was cradled to the chest of her husband, felt his soft, crooned nonsense sounds vibrating against her wet face.

XXXXXXXXXX

Leia had woken with a click like picked lock, a click in the mind, the heart, freeing her from some imprisonment that she'd imposed on herself. Some unconscious punishment, she saw that now. She'd been driving herself, starving herself like some penitent. Working herself literally sick, more than once; and on top of everything else last week, her cycle had arrived. Leia was exhausted, spent. Thinned. Considering she'd woken up weeping—well, not quite; she had not been sobbing, or actively crying, it was more that water streamed on its own down her cheeks—Leia felt better than she had in weeks. A puzzle had been solved, and this always relieved her. She relieved Han, in turn, when she devoured all the toast and eggs he could feed her.

Bail himself had never driven Leia towards her accomplishments; he liked to gently boast that his daughter was so bright and fast all he could do was observe her, his little meteor. It was her, her. Her drive was hers.

Leia remembered that Bail had always told her that he'd frame that page of the paper, when her first feature came out. He'd been that sure, and relaxed, that she would meet her successes. Had Leia forgotten that loving fact? Buried it? Here it was again, like an unearthed bone: evidence of grief, death, but also truth, even a kind of cleanliness. A piece to be assembled into something else, a system of belief, a proof of life.

She could do it, now, Leia knew. Write the thing, just a silly feature on the principal. Finish it, let it exist, and not be consumed in the attempt.


	48. Chapter 48

November 15, 1956. Han was a bit of a professor, Leia thought, watching him through the diner window. He was outside on his ladder, off to the left of her booth and above her, leaning on one drawn-up knee, other long leg firmly braced on a lower rung. His unruly hair flew in the stiff breeze. Impatiently Han swiped it aside, then hooked his thumb in his tool-belt, never breaking his lecture to his small crew of high school freshmen.

The young group was attentive, earnest in their plaid shirts and blouses and duffel coats, pressed khakis and pinned kilts. Except Paul Dameron, who was dressed like a miniature James Dean in red nylon jacket, white t-shirt and jeans. The now co-ed students were due at the _Gazette_ next week, and at Dr. Kalonia's practice the week after that, thanks to Shara. But today, they were observing how a professional kitchen ran. Chewie did his best with the chattering teenagers, but chaos and crowding soon troubled his concentration and impaired the Rogues' production line, and Suzette said she was having none of the brats. So the kids were soon shunted along to Han. Ever the opportunist, Han saw the chance to get help with the diner's winter preparations. Heavy snow was predicted this week.

The students were all too young to drive, but many of the boys were soap-box racers, and they didn't merely heed, they flat-out _beheld_ the man who had smashed both the Kessel Run and Theo Isolder. And while many of the girls seemed honestly interested in learning to use tools—Leia knew Han made handiwork both intriguing and accessible—other girls were clearly riveted to today's speaker for another reason. May as well have cartoon hearts orbiting their heads, Leia thought, with mingled amusement and pride. Han looked particularly rakish today, the collar of his dark blue wool peacoat turned up against the wind. Not exactly hard on the eyes, was her Flyboy.

Leia's lip quirked to remember the big, enigmatic hero's stricken face when he'd glimpsed a garter snake in the woods in October. She'd thought he'd leap into her arms for shelter.

The diner door opened briefly and through it carried Han's strong voice: "Now what I'm gonna teach you guys is how to handle stuff. And handlin' stuff means you gotta get it right, so listen up—yeah, you too, knucklehea—"

Professor? Maybe Han was a preacher, Leia thought, as he went on with his slangy sermon. She tucked a smile in her sweater cuff, picturing Han's exact look of flabbergasted pique if she ever articulated _that_. Leia finished her sandwich and pushed away her plate, pulling over the last file Cecil had pulled on New Hope High School. Her article was complete and gone to the fact-checkers before being run, but Cecil had bustled up to her on her way out the office door for lunch. He'd found this folder tucked behind something else, and offered to accompany her to Chewie's to review the contents. Leia had been tempted to accept just for the look on Han's face when he saw Cecil eat a cheeseburger with a knife and fork, but out of authentic love for her husband, she declined.

Leia didn't expect to find anything remarkable in the file, but she flipped through the mimeographed yearbook pictures and blurred newsletters out of natural curiosity as she sipped her strawberry milkshake. When Leia glanced up again, the students were busily putting up paper turkeys and cornucopias, stripping the autumn flowerpots, loading stray small pumpkins into a wheelbarrow. Han was still on his ladder, using a screwdriver on something in the eaves, frowning upwards, his hair riffling. Slyly Leia bit her lip, watching him work, then frowned. Had it really been...wait, how long had it...of course they'd gone to bed, over this last difficult stretch, but only in a literal sense. Only when Han came home in the small hours and gathered her up from her table-desk— _ssshh, sssshhh_ —carrying her upstairs and collapsing beside her, curled around her. Leia sighed. How she missed him, although their preoccupation with work had been timely, she supposed. But with that female annoyance past, Han's all-nighters over, her article finished? Things were different.

Suddenly Han looked down through the window and caught her sipping her straw and watching him. He hit her with the slow, insinuating grin that he'd used on her before they...before _them_. The look that said he knew Leia liked watching him work, and knew exactly why. But deeper knowledge was there in Han's expression, now, his gaze cocky, smitten, wickedly hopeful. And where Leia would once have looked away, blushing, today she rested her chin in her palm and smiled her own brazen allusion. Han beamed, eyes crinkling with the force of his delight; he seemed about to mouth something through the glass, but a steely screech pierced their exchange.

Han jerked a look over his shoulder.

"Hey!" Now his voice carried past the barrier of the window. He stuck two fingers between his lips, producing a whistle that stopped the kids in their tracks. "Guys: them flower boxes are mounted on brackets. You can't just yank 'em down, you gotta—" Han slid down the ladder and unslung the drill from his tool-belt. "Here, I'll do one, you watch, then you guys do the rest. Yeah? Alright." Han shot Leia a molten look, pointing at her in suggestive deferment. With that he strode off to tend his flock, her evangelist of _handlin' stuff_.

Wes Janson had come outside, clowning for the students. He kept trying to balance a miniature pumpkin on the head of Wedge Antilles, who held one side of a flower box steady while Han used his drill on the other. At first Wedge stoically ignored his old friend, maintaining a conversation with Han. Then Janson palmed the side of Wedge's face like a basketball. Wedge, cigarette casually clamped in the corner of his mouth, seized the softened pumpkin and crushed it onto Janson's precious greased hair without disrupting the job at hand. The kids fell about. Han, without dropping his end of the job, either, burst into his broad, full-bodied laugh. Leia loved that laugh best with her ear pressed to his bare chest until she didn't hear it so much as she felt the joyful vibration throughout herself. Hugging herself hard, as though to contain the expansion of her heart, Leia went back to her own work.

But soon she found herself looking down Main Street, like some sentry. Leia wasn't sure what she was watching for. Not Theo, not anymore. After the fight at the fair, Han had worn his own brief bruising with an offhandedness that only added to his allure. Theo, however, had been glimpsed around town wearing dark glasses, with a flattened nose and wired jaw. No one was afraid of him, and even his mother's influence was waning fast. It was as though, along with Theo's face, Han had broken some local spell that held New Hope in the Isolders' thrall. With once-unthinkable relish, girls in the _Gazette_ typing pool discussed Theo's savage comeuppance—at the hands of Leia Organa's secret husband, no less!

And there was another current at work, more subtle, about Empire. It was nothing anyone had said, but Leia sensed some project developing. She had seen odd folders on Mon Mothma's desk, had wondered why the editor was doing heavy research herself.

Then last week, in Knapp's Drugs, Leia had overheard a clerk gossiping about the way Erin treated her household staff. Apparently the extravagant estate next to Leia's childhood home was falling into disarray as staffer after staffer quit. Erin was at the end of her wits, the clerk said, gleefully. More than most, Leia understood that clerk's glee. But she didn't share it. She couldn't: Erin Isolder was not yet routed; she was like a rattlesnake with a broken back. Now that Erin knew Leia had ducked the yoke of her enforced engagement? Now that Leia's actual groom had mangled Erin's only son? After losing out on Leia's money, and Alder Glen? Leia had rebelled, and Erin would retaliate. Her ego demanded it.

Erin was waiting. But for what?

Muffled music roused Leia from her troubled reverie. Han had let Paul Dameron put his transistor on, and the kids were singing "See You Later, Alligator" as they worked. Paul, a real charmer, began to dance on the sidewalk with a girl with teased black hair. Leia clearly read Han's order on his lips: "Work first, Junior. Flirt later."

Leia printed a word in large letters on a piece of foolscap and held it up to the glass. Han made a show of squinting to read her accusation: _Hypocrite._ He pointed a finger at himself. _Me?_ Leia nodded. Slowly shaking his head, Han mouthed deliberately back, _Naaaah._ His crooked grin, filthy and irresistible, said that flirting was the least of the plans he had for her. Her heart beating faster, Leia turned to the next page in her file.

Her anticipatory smile died on her lips.

As though Leia had summoned her with earlier thoughts, there she was on the smudged, copied yearbook page: Erin Isolder—no, she would have been Erin Palpatine then, in the 1920s. Her bobbed blonde hair was elegantly marcelled, pinned back at one side with a jewelled barrette. Teenaged Erin was not pretty but handsome, yes, like a bird of prey. To see her young, Leia was shocked at how dramatically Erin had aged in the last decade. Had forgotten that Erin was still so young, now, under 50; somehow Leia never thought of Erin as her mother's peer. Breha had remained lovely, even in her last few years of anxiety and unhappiness, but the last time Leia had seen her, Erin looked twenty years older than she was—and even then her appearance did not reflect natural aging, but some sort of internal corruption. Leia shivered.

In the foreground of the yearbook picture Erin was calling something through a laugh, one hand held coyly to her cheek. The person Erin seemed to be addressing was small in stature, mostly obscured behind an easel that revealed only a sliver of a focused female face. The copied picture was blurred, and little of the painter showed, so Leia couldn't clearly make out the image, but something about that girl, _something_...

Leia sat back, bringing a slow hand to her mouth. The artist was one of the Naberrie sisters.

XXXXXXXXXX

Out of the corner of his eye, through the window, Han registered a flash of white. He turned on his heel to see Leia fling her ivory wool coat about her shoulders, snatch up her papers and weave through taller customers on her way out of the diner. Han moved to meet her at the door, opening his mouth to ask, _What's up?_ Before he could talk, Leia gave him a quick, almost apologetic peck on his lower lip and said she'd be back in a bit.

XXXXXXXXXX

As Leia walked towards the library and town archives, heels clicking briskly, she felt several things at once. Pain that she couldn't tell if the girl at the easel was Breha or Padmé; more pain that she could not ask her mother herself. Chagrin to think she'd had no idea that either of the sisters had nurtured artistic ambitions—that it hadn't occurred to Leia to _wonder._

Although she had never known Padmé, Leia thought of the twins as a unit. Something like the constellation of Gemini, silent and fixed in tragedy. One girl was Leia's mother, one was Luke's. They were the wives of Bail Organa and Anakin Skywalker. Leia felt ashamed that, for such a curious thinker, for her ideals about women as individuals, Leia hadn't truly conceptualized the twins as people with wishes, thoughts, goals of their own. Leia had never truly seen the person Breha had been before grief overtook her. And Padmé had taken on martyrdom in her death, with its proximity to Luke's birth. How does one humanize a saint, or the mourner who keeps constant vigil for her?

Leia set her jaw against rising emotion, thickening confusion. Maybe she was getting ahead of herself. After all, Leia had occasionally stood at an easel in school, and she'd never wanted to be an artist. It could be merely a picture, a candid moment. There wasn't necessarily pattern or meaning in it.

Ah, but Leia knew pattern, knew meaning, when she saw it.

Just before Han's night shifts started, she'd taken Millie into town for groceries and left Han at home, braving his chilly woodshop to work on what he called a top-secret project. As she drove into a flare of late-autumn light Leia pushed down the sun visor, and a photograph slipped from the paperclip that held it there, fluttering down into her lap. It was a black-and-white of herself, very recent, she had never seen it; Han had bought a small Kodak, messing with it enough that Leia soon forgot to notice when he had it out. In the shot Leia was curled in the big easy chair, wearing the slip she sometimes slept in. Silk strap fallen from her shoulder, pencil between her lips, notebook on her lap, eyes fixed on a book. Her hair was loosely pinned and she was wearing the tortoiseshell reading glasses she'd just been prescribed. The spectacles made Leia feel self-conscious but Han unexpectedly (and explicitly) loved them.

Most men kept snapshots of their wives in their wallets. Leia was moved to find that Han secretly carried her with him in his beloved truck, a totem within a totem, private symbols marked on his heart. Seeing herself through Han's eyes was thrillingly foreign. Leia had thought, with a flush of pleasure, that the girl in the picture looked like a fascinating stranger: sexy, intellectual, just the right bit lazy; unmistakably on her way to, or just out of, bed with the photographer. Now, though, opening the library door, Leia considered another facet of her candid portrait. She and the Naberrie girl in the other picture shared not only familial resemblance but also their look of fierce focus, of complete absorption in their mental process. Knowing that look and what it signified told Leia that the yearbook had captured something beyond a student at work on a standard assignment.

But it wasn't merely that creative, disciplined expression that she recognized, Leia thought as she moved among the library stacks, collecting relevant high school yearbooks. She knew _Erin's_ look, too, the casual venom directed at whatever threatened her desires. In the picture, Erin's poison amusement was aimed at the girl behind the easel—or perhaps at the easel itself, what the easel represented, the attention it diverted, the barrier between the artist and Erin.

Yearbooks in her arms, Leia went swiftly down the steel stairs to the basement, where the town archives were kept. There were extra newspaper records here too, the overflow from the _Gazette_. Seating herself at the microfiche carrel, Leia began with the yearbooks. She had already seen the twins' school portraits, freshman through senior, in her mother's private photographs. She had seen Erin's, too, framed on the Isolder mantel, all those years the Organas and Isolders were neighbors. Erin Palpatine was the Homecoming Queen, the Spring Belle, always the queen of everything. Leia flipped through pages, looking for any appearance of the Naberrie sisters in unposed pictures, club meetings, dances, football games. No—no—no. Leia closed the last yearbook with a frustrated hiss and turned on the microfiche, scrolling through newspaper records.

 _Birth._

Here were Leia and Luke's maternal grandparents, expensively dressed, each holding a new daughter in their arms. Here was an article with a shot of the twins as toddlers at Alder Glen. There were throngs of people at their birthday party, as though the Naberries had invited the entire town to celebrate. The girls wore matching frilled pinafores, beaming faces wreathed in frosting.

 _Marriage._

Leia knew her parents' wedding portrait. Still she sucked in a wounded breath to see it again, Bail handsome in his suit, Breha radiant in a simple dress. Though they were older here than Leia was on her own wedding day, her parents looked, to their sole child, impossibly young, hopeful, happy. They had married quite suddenly, in New York City, with no family present from either side, but the tone of the newspaper announcement was positive: _The Naberrie family is delighted to announce._ An accomplished, brilliant young lawyer, Bail Organa must have been a surprise but suitable groom for Breha Naberrie. He was touted for great things in New York politics, Leia noted from the text, though her father had never spoken to her of any such ambitions.

Frowning across the gloomy basement room, Leia wondered what had she really known about any of the older members of her family. Art, politics? Hopes. Dreams. Surely her parents had been happy together? Leia had felt their authentic love for one another, and for her, for most of her life. Leia sighed, almost touched the screen before letting her hand sink in futility. She imagined she could feel the moat of grief widen through time to engulf even Breha's moments of joy, even into the future to encroach upon Leia's.

Squaring her shoulders, Leia scrolled on. Anakin Skywalker and Padmé Naberrie also had a marriage announcement, published not long after Breha's. The tone of this one was terse. There was no mention of what Anakin did for a living, where he was from. There was no photograph. Leia remembered Luke saying, once, that Ben had told him his parents had eloped without anyone even knowing they were a couple—just showed up in New Hope married. Cross-referencing with the obituaries Leia saw that Mr. Naberrie had died before Breha married, and Mrs. Naberrie very soon after Padmé wed, as though she'd been horrified into an early grave. She had raised her daughters to be debutantes, socialites, upper-class wives.

 _Death._

There was a front-page article about the terrible crash, less than a year into Padmé and Anakin's marriage, the language surprisingly blunt considering the times and the Naberries' local status. _Single car._ _Icy road, reckless driving, speed. Alcohol._ Leia's eyes raced over the words. _Coma. Caesarean section. Delivered of a son._ Leia's throat tightened at the mention of Luke, and she thought of her own parallel birth. But there was no birth announcement for either Luke or Leia. It would have been unseemly under the circumstances of mourning, Leia supposed. Breha had never spoken of Leia's birth; had learning of her sister's accident sent Breha into early labor? Just one more thing she could not ask her mother, not that Leia had ever felt she could go to Breha with painful questions. When she was about 13 she'd questioned her father about what had happened to Padmé, and he had given her a long, searching look before he sighed heavily and said, _Leave it alone, Lelila, leave it alone._

The microfiche exhausted, Leia sat back in her chair. None of this brought her closer to identifying the family artist. Impulsively Leia returned to a yearbook, flipping past the freshmen Naberries to find the seniors. _Kenobi, Benjamin._

Confronted with the picture of a handsome, clear-eyed boy she'd never known, Leia was faced with an agonizing truth, one she had been avoiding, or had missed in the passionate bloom of her own life. Ben was in rapid decline. It hurt like swallowed fire, but Leia forced herself to confront the fact: for a relatively young man Ben had grown frail, his thick hair and beard turning in just a few years from auburn to snowy white.

All her life Leia had thought of Ben as private, but content. Painting, studying. Vigorous and healthy. Hiking in the woods with her and Luke, firing their imaginations and talents along with his keen, philosophical eye. Ben was solemn, yes, but witty, and certainly never spoke of any grief. But the clean-shaven young man here, the Ben of the past, with his wide, dimpled smile, his mischievous eyes, was someone else. This boy had a...a lightness about him, a buoyancy that had clearly been lost.

Leia flipped back through the yearbook, looking again. Looking for Ben. In a candid picture she found him, impossibly young and quite handsome, on the auditorium stage that had recently featured in Leia's dreams. Ben did not look boastful accepting his award from an extremely young Principal Knowles, but he wasn't bashful, either, despite his shabby shirt and tie, his sport-coat patched at one elbow. And beside the principal, wearing an elaborate rhinestone crown and satin dress, distributing the scholarship prizes? The Spring Queen, Erin Palpatine, did her ornamental job. Poised, polished, not a hair out of place, her hands encased in prim lace gloves. Her expression was fixed on Ben Kenobi, her smile hard and hateful and bright.

Ben was shaking the principal's hand, but his gaze was turned away, offstage. His eyes were resting on someone in the audience—they had to be fixed to a special face, they were so warm and full of pride and joyful, secret affinity. A look Leia could not have recognized a year ago, but now knew and cherished, gave and received. You couldn't search for this category in archives, it wasn't a recognized social announcement one made—but here it was, clear and true, preserved in time.

 _Love._

She hadn't known it until she saw this impish youth, visibly poor but confident in his share of the world's gifts, sure of life's essential rightness. But now, in the poignant gulf between this blithe boy and the man she and Luke knew and loved, Leia saw the truth: all these years, all this time, Ben Kenobi had been quietly, desperately bereft.


	49. Chapter 49

Yeah, Han could admit it: that flirty bit with Leia through the diner window had got him a little worked up. It had been awhile since they'd...well, not exactly monkhood, but still a gap. They'd been rough weeks for them both, he knew that, and Han didn't see having a wife—didn't see Leia herself—as some free pass to sex, but he...he missed it, okay? He did. Badly. Han sorely missed being with Leia that way and it wasn't just the physical, though _that_ was both devastating and blissful. Affixing strips of plastic to the bottom of the diner's storm shutters, Han unconsciously shook his head; the words he couldn't reach were _immersion, completion._ He missed immersion in Leia for so many reasons.

He'd thought, over their couple weeks of distance, that maybe Leia had her—well, her—hell, Han had never lived with a woman, he didn't know how their...female patterns worked, but she'd never mentioned it and he hadn't asked. Han had also wondered, once or twice, if he was just grasping for ways to explain their intermission.

Today, though, Han felt they were back on track, and that was wonderful, electrifying and almost _painful_ , considering they weren't alone together. Supervising the kids' chores distracted Han awhile, but when they left he was haunted again by his beloved erotic specter, how she looked at him earlier, her stubborn chin settled in her hand. Leia's beautiful face had been as cool and public as the picture window between them, but her eyes? Ah, her eyes were fiery and daring, secret and _his_. Han had finished his day's work planning to tackle Leia straight into bed—hell, anywhere she wanted, really.

But Leia was solemn on the drive home, her earlier playfulness forgotten. When he asked if she was okay, Leia gave him a small smile and said she was fine, just had something on her mind. Han chewed the inside of his cheek as they pulled up alongside the cabin. She'd been doing well, lately, gaining back her natural frame; busy but happy, smiling, genuinely herself. He hoped that this sudden diversion wasn't ominous, but—he was tired of not knowing what to think, or how to address it. Han was generally a man of quick conclusions, wrong or right, leading to decisive actions that he didn't dwell on. And he still was, with most situations. But his often swift, confident way through life had been dependent on not giving a damn about most anybody else. Now that he felt like he did for Leia, his emotional compass was—well, it was both wonderfully acute, and totally useless! Turned out love really fucked with a guy's callousness.

But Han Solo was also a unique combination of greedy and patient. He wanted Leia's full, enthusiastic, joyful attention, and he was willing to wait for it.

They both stopped short as they approached the porch, Han's arm still slung around Leia's shoulders, hers about his waist. The cedar planks were covered in what seemed the full yield of every vine, field, bush, furrow and tree in all Indiana. Han knelt, compelled to touch it all, smell it. The starved child he had been could not believe such vivid abundance: potatoes, late corn, purple onions, pumpkins, gravid squash; apples, grapes, ruby beets; cabbage, carrots, kale greens.

Leia froze. No, this...was not normal, such provision. Snowy cauliflower. Peppers like jewels. Ferny knobs of broccoli. This was the life force made visible, tangible, fragrant, edible. She could feel the investment of sun, rainwater, fertile earth. All this nourishing, sustaining beauty—the last of it, offered up, the glorious last burst of something.

Han grinned up at Leia from his knees, sinking his teeth into a filmy mauve plum, his lip twisting at the delicious tartness. But Leia stared, spookily, into space, the way she sometimes got when chasing a thought, narrowing down some precise word. Han couldn't know this, but the word Leia sought was _inheritance._

"I have to see Ben," she whispered, when she found it.

XXXXXXXXXX

There was no answer at Ben's cabin, when Leia knocked.

Han went around back to check the lean-to for Ben's ancient Ford sedan, and Leia opened the door that Ben never locked, that hadn't even closed correctly until Han fixed it. Ben had taken trips off alone as long as Leia had known him, to place paintings with gallerists, or drive to other states in search of fresh inspiration. Sometimes he'd be gone days with no explanation. Leia could almost believe that this was the same, except that the cabin was spartan, and felt deserted. There were no canvases propped against the walls; the paints were put away, the easel was empty, a sight Leia had never seen. The only evidence of Ben Kenobi's lifetime of creativity was the floor, spattered with paint, the muted, quiet tones that characterized his work. Automatically Leia's eye grouped these streaks, whorls and dots into their familiar patterns—like the rings of a tree, this castoff was a way to chart the years, a radiation outward from the constant expansion of Ben's imagination.

 _Birth. Marriage. Death._ Leia thought this, and shuddered—not with horror, but in prescience, sensing some emergent truth.

XXXXXXXXXX

Han was building a fire when Leia got up to try the telephone again. He frowned at the kindling paper he was twisting in his fingers. On the tense hike back through the woods from Ben's cabin Han vowed to take Leia anywhere she wanted to go, anywhere she could think of that Ben might have driven. And Leia had looked at the night sky, glowing ghostly with the promise of snow, and said she just needed to go home.

That she needed to talk to Luke.

Han also enjoyed frequent conversations with Luke, chuckling together at the irony of the wide-eyed hick thriving in Chicago, the cynical mercenary crazy-happy in the sticks. Luke was doing great at art school, though he was too modest to say that as bluntly as Han declared his own growing prowess as an airplane mechanic. Han thought the world of the kid, he really did. So he'd swallowed his pang of jealousy, knowing it was undeserved, unfair, unhelpful.

Finally Leia replaced the receiver on its wall-mounted base and moved toward the living room. Relieved, Han sat back on their new sheepskin rug, opening an arm to her. But Leia stopped, frowned, and turned back to the phone, as though she'd thought of something she hadn't tried. Listening to the rotary dial click yet again through Luke's number as though for the first time, Han let his arm drop, struggling not to feel rejected. Hey, whatever Leia needed. This was about Kenobi, after all; Luke would know better. _Allocation. The best guy for the job._ Leia paced, receiver pressed to her ear, staring through the kitchen window at the firs, dusted now with whirling white. Han chewed his lip, watching the fire cast up swirling sparks.

XXXXXXXXXX

Han woke with a start. His arms, normally warm and full with his wife, were hollow. He thought it was this chilly strangeness that woke him, but as he pushed groggily up on one arm, Han made out speech coming from downstairs.

He fumbled for the alarm clock on the bedside table.

Han remembered that they'd gone to sleep together under their quilts, Leia wrapped in his arms like always. Had Leia had gotten up after he'd dropped off to try Luke on the phone again? Had she finally reached him at—Han squinted at the phosphorescent numbers—4:16 in the damn A.M.?

Han swung his legs out of bed and went softly down from the loft in his bare feet. Still half-asleep, Han stopped at the foot of the stairs, squinting into the lamplight. He was abruptly grateful that he was at least half-clothed, wearing the thermal long underwear bottoms he sometimes slept in when it was cold. The gray leggings were snug, and didn't leave a whole lot of him to the imagination, but considering his original plans for his evening with his wife, Han figured things coulda been worse. Or better. Y'know, depending on your perspective.

" _Kid?_ "

Perched on the couch beside Leia, Luke Skywalker looked up through clear blue eyes and smiled.

XXXXXXXXXX

"I just knew," Luke said, in his open way. Somehow, Luke explained, he had sensed Leia's distress and left Chicago at once, driving through the afternoon and night. Leia smiled at her cousin, squeezing his hand. Han leaned back in the easy chair, running his own palms uncomfortably over the threadbare upholstery, trying to suppress images of Leia with him there on their wedding night. He studied the pair seated on the chesterfield. Leia was visibly tired, curled up tiny in her father's terrycloth robe, but her eyes shone. Luke was wearing some beatnik getup, black turtleneck and pants, and his hair had darkened some. He looked older, Han decided, as Luke described driving for hours nonstop. Boy, Han remembered what that was like—but where fatigue, strain and mainlined caffeine had made Han jumpy for days after he fled Baltimore, somehow Luke remained sunny and fresh as June.

Han could see that Leia was relieved, that Luke's arrival had soothed her. And he wanted that, Han genuinely wanted Leia's well-being above all else. But...hell, _alright_ : Han had bet on himself as the guy to provide that deliverance. Yeah, fine, he had no fuckin' idea where Ben Kenobi was but still he figured _he'd_ solve the problem. Eventually. It was embarrassing to admit it.

He knew Luke and Leia's kinship preceded his marriage. He understood the cousins shared a unique communion that he could never fully enter, just as Luke was outside Han's own connection to his wife. This had never bothered Han. And it really shouldn't now, since the problem was Ben; Ben, who Han didn't much know, whose absence Han couldn't analyze. And he didn't love the older man, either, so he couldn't truly shoulder Leia's worry with her.

Not like Luke could. Like only Luke could.

But the problem was, that wasn't _it_. Not all of it. It wasn't just Ben; there was something else worrying at Leia. Luke had left Chicago in the afternoon—right around when, Han calculated, Leia had bolted from the diner, flirtation abandoned _._ And she hadn't known Ben had vanished, then. Han saw again the way she'd hurried down the street, the troubled look in her eyes when she walked back. There was something Leia couldn't say to him, except in her sleep.

Yet somehow, Luke had sensed it. _Swooped in to save the day,_ the ugly part of Han's nature suggested. Like some superhero out of the comic books the kids in Corell were always swiping from corner stores, and then from one another, in that cruel cycle of envy, violence. Deprivation. Possessiveness.

He watched Leia and Luke converse in their private language, all nods and fast, disjointed words. They moved their hands as though projecting ideas in the air between them, a plan taking shape there like some transparent sphere, obvious to them but invisible to Han. He knew they weren't trying to be evasive, but it hurt, even without intention. Han assumed the shield of his world-class poker face. _Luke. Is not. Your goddamned rival._ He was ashamed of his reaction, but the more Han pushed the resentment away— _I love Leia, I love the kid—_ both of which were true, he did, he _did_ —the stronger the sense of exclusion seemed to get, until Han's higher and lower natures warred behind his impassive expression. _Hey, Batman. Why didn't you sense when she was starving herself?_ Just in time, Han bit severely down on this aggressive, ungenerous impulse.

 _Stop. You both love her, Solo, you selfish prick._

Han scrubbed his hands over his face. He was tired. He was just so...tired, and...okay, missing Leia in several ways, separated from her lately, tired and lonely and troubled and— _okay_ , fuckin' _aching,_ a base truth he would allow himself to secretly acknowledge only so long as he kept it strictly under wraps. Holy _shit_ he was obnoxious, Han berated himself. He wasn't gonna whine about his cock when Leia was worried nightmare-sick over the closest thing to a father she had left—and probably Luke's only father figure, ever, Han considered. He looked at Luke, boyish face intent as he listened to Leia; another fatherless boy in spirit if not in fact. It was a relief for Han, to tap into his authentic warmth for the kid. At least that way Han could stand to be trapped in his own head without having to defend against some jerk-ass version of himself.

The kitchen clock read 5.09. Han had to be up in an hour to go work, so he might as well stay awake. He got up and kissed Leia's head, knuckled Luke's hair as he passed. Both smiled up at him with authentic love; Leia stroked the small of his bare back, Luke gave him an affectionate shove. Han felt better as he moved to the galley kitchen and turned on the light, started brewing coffee, cracking eggs. Letting the ghost of bitterness dissolve in sugar and milk and yolks, into practical utility. _If anyone's gonna be Batman,_ Han kidded himself along, _it'll be me._

It was obvious the kid was more Clark Kent.

XXXXXXXXXX

Leia decided to call in sick to work, which first shocked Han, then relieved him. Finally, she'd take a damn break. Han offered to stay home, too, but Leia said no, inclining her chin at Luke, sacked out insensible on the couch. With a weak smile, she said she was going to go back to bed. And Han felt gratitude to Luke for showing up and slowing Leia down, however outside that conversion he'd been himself.

"Good," Han said, leaning down to kiss Leia's forehead. Holding her shoulders, he leaned back and studied his wife; she looked peaked beyond simple fatigue, her eyes huge in her delicate face. Her skin was greenish, not its usual sweet whole cream. She was eating, at least; less than normal but enough. And she'd lost the angular sharpness of earlier in the month. "Y'alright?" Han asked, gruffly. "You'd tell me if—"

Leia nodded, absently, a vague answer to an open-ended question. Han caught her chin between his thumb and forefinger, steered her eyes to his. "Leia. Is it the Isolders again?" Even as he asked he felt his throat tighten with wrath.

"No." Leia pressed her palm, warmed from her coffee mug, to his face. "No. No, Han. It's nothing like that. It's just Ben—"

"And somethin' else," he insisted. "Like them dreams." Lowering her hand, Leia stiffened; Han realized that he'd broken some unspoken rule to ignore the nightmares by day, which was all the more reason, he figured, that he should bring them up. Especially when he was the one to rock her into wakefulness. "Yeah, the dreams and somethin' when you left the diner, right? C'mon, Sweetheart. I'm not—"

Leia searched his eyes, then spoke with uncharacteristic inarticulation. "It's just I think, maybe. Well. It's more a feeling." Her own eyes slid to the side. Just the tiniest avoidant tell, but enough that Han was surprised she began again. "I promise I'll tell you if—as of now, there's no point discussing it."

Han didn't love being put off, and he _really_ didn't love hearing that old diplomat's tone in Leia's voice. But Leia had set her mouth in the stubborn line that meant this response was the best he'd get without a battle, and Han didn't want to spring that on her when she was fragile. Ramparts, ramparts. Collecting his lunchbox, Han grabbed an apple from Ben's mountain of produce. Earlier, at breakfast, both Leia and Luke had channelled their worry for Ben into fretfulness about wasting any of his gift, so Han figured he was helping. Opening the cabin door, Han leaned down and kissed Leia's mouth, then her forehead again, almost sternly. "Call me at the hangar if anything comes up." He kissed her neck, cheek, temple, knuckles, as though afraid to miss a vital wounded spot. "Anything, Leia. I mean it."

Leia kissed him back and with that, Han felt, she promised him.

XXXXXXXXXX

It was so slow at work that Han was under Millie's hood with a couple of the guys, trying to figure out that stubborn transmission bug. He was very tired, but feeling alright. At breakfast Leia'd seemed still upset, but better—even laughing at Han and Luke's distracting stories. Sure, she'd looked a little queasy when he left but she'd eaten, at least, and Han was glad she was spending the day asleep. Luke's presence was pure bonus, too, Han could see that now in the frank fluorescent light of the hangar. His hands in the works of his truck, nose filled with the smell of oil and metal, Han felt any residual envy recede, like bad dreams, from his natural habitat of the literal.

When he was called to the phone, Han jogged over, thinking it would be Leia, or Luke. They'd found Ben, and it was all some big somethin' outta nothin', and—

"How the hell did _you_ get this number?"

"Hey now," Lando admonished, brandy-smooth. "Little heavy on the salt, there, buddy. I'm just calling to invite you and your lovely bride to Thanksgiving dinner."

"Thanksgiving is in..." Han glanced at the Gil Elvgren pinup calendar tacked next to the telephone. "What, under a week?" In all the upheaval, he and Leia had completely forgotten, not that Han paid much attention to holidays anyway. "Isn't that kinda close-cut for your fancy-ass social bullshit?"

" _Fancy-ass social bullshit._ There's that Solo poetry." Lando gave a patronizing chuckle. "It's called spontaneity. Besides, I tried to call you at home yesterday, but your line was busy. All night." Han almost heard Lando's grin. "Burning up the wires to your mistress already?"

"Watch your mouth, dork," Han's tone was easy, but with an edge.

"Yeah, well. I'd hate to think—"

"Think? You?" Han scoffed. "Sure _._ "

"Listen, fool. I'm hosting at Cloud City and—"

"Thanksgiving at the bar." Han intoned, voice provocatively neutral.

"Hey, it's gonna be classy! It's a private event!" Lando said, hotly. "...I've opened a banquet room."

Han began to laugh. "That new dining table's too big for your apartment, huh."

"No, it's just not harmonious—"

" _Harmonious?_ Where the fuck is that on a tape measure?" Han buffed his apple on his shirtfront. "I told you, Lando. Didn't I. I said, size the goddamn thing out first, because—"

"Look, are you coming or what? I need numbers."

"Oh, _now_ you respect numbers."

"C'mon, jerk. The rest of your crew is all in. The Rogues, the girls...Chewie's catering." Lando snorted. "Chewie, hell, he's a whole other...guy cooks like a genius, but damn, he's insisting on using all _seasonal_ this and _garden_ that and _heirloom turkey_ besides. I said to him when he gave me the quote, were we or were we not brothers in arms? You should see what he's charging me."

"Welp. That's Chewie's _spontaneity_ rate." Han crunched into his apple. The fruit was so good, so refreshing and alive, that Han imagined it reviving everything about him, from energy to outlook. Maybe a holiday get-together with their friends was just what Leia needed—especially with Luke home, too. Convenient. In a rush of good will Han said, "Yeah, man, why not. Mark me an' Leia down as _harmonious._ "

"So...you squabblers finally, ehrm, singing the same tune?"

Chewing, Han threw his apple core at the metal garbage can a few feet away, nailing it with a definitive ring that he knew carried down the phone. He grinned slyly into the receiver, as though Lando could see him. Let Calrissian fill in the blanks of what Han's relationship with Leia was like.

"Hey, numbers man. Count Luke in, too." Han hung up. Not a bad bit of hustling; he'd found a perfect purpose for all that produce. That would relieve one of Leia's worries at least, and Chewie was gonna _flip._

XXXXXXXXXX

The invitation came as they always did from Ben; by telephone, in the late afternoon, polite and unassuming. Only this time, Ben wasn't calling from his home, up the winding, treed slope from Leia's own. This time, there was pay-phone distortion down the line, and a hiss that could have been increased distance or some expression of pain. Ben didn't answer any of Leia's frantic questions, as though he was short on change, or time, or breath. He simply relayed an almost unintelligible address to her. She asked him to repeat it, but there was only silence. He'd said Yavin, and that was all she got. But it was odd. What was Ben doing in Yavin, an industrial area downtown by the Kessel River?

Leia looked at the clock. It was 4:24; Han wasn't due home for a couple hours. Leia yearned for Han's warmth, for his essential capability. Not to mention his uncanny sense of direction. He _had_ said she could call him there—but Leia shook her head. Han worked hard, and to his own rhythm; there was no reason to disrupt him. Yavin was only just downtown, they'd collect Ben and be back in an hour.

With a labored, thin breath, Ben hung up, and thoughts of the help and comfort of Han's presence flew from Leia's mind, with every other thought of herself. Vanished with the thought of what Han had understood to be Leia's promise, but which she had considered his reassurance. With a quick note left on the table, Leia snatched up her coat, then ran outside and stopped Luke in the middle of sweeping last night's snowfall from the porch.

XXXXXXXXXX

Han loved driving home with Leia, but there was something to be said for the way he felt when he pulled up to Alder Glen alone, knowing she was inside, waiting for him. In the dark the windows shone through the drawn curtains, casting colored squares of light on the new snow. The cabin looked cozy and sturdy, enough to soothe anyone's worries. Han felt the sense of pride he always did, to see the place; the work he'd done showed, but underneath that he felt a recent, more subtle sense of worth. That he must be doing something right in this world: somehow Alder Glen was his home, and Leia Organa his girl.

Maybe some of Luke's optimism had rubbed off on Han, because he got out of Millie with an inexplicable lightness, the notion that everything was swell, that Ben had turned up fine. The dark smelled crisply of impending snow. As he stepped onto the porch Han was fielding, with some amusement at himself, the kind of earnest, goofy impulses that he'd have ruthlessly sheared from his old life. Hand closing on the doorknob, Han remembered that over the summer he'd found a metal popcorn shaker in a cupboard, so Leia bought kernels for it. They were going to try it out over a campfire, but never did. Like all old tools, it intrigued him. Maybe tonight Luke would get a fire going, and Leia would put on some records, they'd have a couple drinks and Han could fiddle with the shaker. Han smirked to himself. _Square as hell._

"Leia?" Han unlaced his insulated boots, good secondhand winter ones Dottie had sent for him with Doc. Damn, those things were warm, almost knee-high, actually fit his long legs and big feet. Real sweet of the lady; Han both appreciated the gesture and had no damned idea what to do in response. Leia would know. "Sweetheart, you still asl—"

There was a piece of foolscap on the Formica table, but this one held no flirtatious message.

 _Gone for Ben. With Luke. Back soon. I love you._


	50. Chapter 50

The address Ben had given Leia wasn't hard to find. It was the only building left in a rundown industrial complex near the Kessel River. The flat smell of the water cancelled out the snow-scent in their nostrils as Luke and Leia climbed a flight of crumbling brick steps. At the top was an incongruously turquoise door, faded but still cheerful in comparison to its grim surroundings. The address was rendered on the lively door in gold paint, flaking now but so meticulously done it looked almost filigreed. _Four Yavin Road._ Luke knocked, then waited, and when his face reported some private signal the cousins went inside.

"Ben?" Luke called into the shadows, his voice brave and optimistic; perhaps only Leia could have detected the quaver in it. She linked her arm through Luke's and they moved, conjoined, into the arctic, dark, cavernous space. It smelled of paint, both old and fresh. As her eyes adjusted to the minimal light, Leia could make out a few canvas panels along one wall, staggered together. She thought of gravestones; she also thought of Han's overlapped shingles. Death, work. Leia shivered with cold, shivered with mingled foreboding and longing.

There was a quiet, exhausted cough; Luke and Leia turned to look where candlelight drove shadows back from a corner of the loft. This small space was softened with threadbare fabrics and textures in a mashup of epochs and cultures: Victorian fringe, Edwardian lace, French wine bottles holding melted-down wax. A Persian rug, cushions stitched with English cabbage roses. A Japanese paper screen. Canadian syrup tins holding fine Chinese brushes. The linking commonality was color: everything seemed to be chosen for color and in the center of this, on the carpet, a shape overlaid with an American patchwork quilt.

The frail shape shifted. Leia inhaled, and at her shoulder, she felt Luke tense. Ben had become a wraith. He tried to sit up and gave up, his expression flashing pain but also a small smile of relief.

XXXXXXXXXX

Han Solo paced the living room floor, a hand on his hip, the other working the back of his neck. He stopped at the window to stare out at the snow, falling heavily now; his eyes were a vivid, almost caustic green. He eyed the telephone balefully, agent of his troubles but silent now, wasn't it, when it counted? Han's hand twitched; he wanted to pull the phone out of the wall by its buzzing roots, but then what if Leia called? Damn squawkpiece was the only tool he had.

He was stuck. Han was stuck in his fear for Leia, when every instinct screamed to move, drive, seek, fix—he craved motion, action, and couldn't leave because he had to be here when she called, or sent him some note pasted into a book. Which Leia would; Han knew she would, because something was jacked up, and he'd like a damned head-start on getting her out. In the meantime, he had nowhere to look. Han moved into the kitchen like a declawed tiger, saddled with instinct but stripped of options, of tools, of weapons. He felt woefully unequipped except for the bitter internal commentary that had kept him sane in Korea.

Was Han angry with Leia? Yes. No. Yes! He couldn't be made this afraid for her without converting it to outrage at her, at himself. Outrage to be this helpless, that he couldn't immediately ensure that Leia was all right; outrage to plumb the depths of fear that love plunged you into. And as for Luke: well, Han would never hit him, but he sure wanted to put the kid in a six-hour headlock. Just skywalk ol' Luke up and down the block, neck tucked hard into the crook of Han's arm, lecturing his ass on common sense. And how bad Picasso sucked. Curse him to stay a virgin until at he was at least forty. Twist his ear near-off. Tell him he looked twerpy in his turtleneck.

It was juvenile but this nasty stream bubbled on, snide and effervescent, and Han went with it, hoping it would rush him away from the rocks of _What if. What if. What if. What if._ Night had fallen. The snow was falling too, thick and steady. Roads were icy and some, unplowed. And meanwhile Han, who could deal uncommonly well with physical threat, was trapped here in the land of theory, of worry. He was in here frettin' like some little old lady while the Bobbsey Twins were maybe stuck in a snowbank ( _Chrissake don't think of Leia's tiny shivering body_ ) or stopped for a coffee, a piece of pie (Han both passionately hoped they had done this and resolved to kill them himself if they had). That thought, at least, gave Han a small task: he could call Chewie's again, and ask if Luke and Leia had shown up, though he knew Leia was never this thoughtless.

On the other hand: that one-line note, and after she'd _promised..._

Suzette hissed in annoyance when she recognized Han's voice. "Still ain't here, kid."

Han hated when Suzette called him kid—though he didn't call Luke _Kid_ in a patronizing sense (though Han was gonna start, oh yeah, the second Luke and Leia were back safe from this little trick) Han bristled to be addressed this way himself. He hadn't been a kid since he was three, certainly no woman's kid, and if he'd been forced to give up on childhood's protections he sure as hell would reject its diminishments.

He wanted to smart Suzette back, vent his pressurized mix of fear and anger, but when he opened his mouth nothing came out except a thin snarl, the sound of that helpless tiger in a leg-hold trap. Suzette sighed with an impatient decency that wouldn't have been out of place from Han himself. "Listen, Solo. I'll call if I see them, alright? You got my word." And she hung up. Han hung up too, so gently that it was an unconscious hedge against destructive panic. If he hung up too hard, as hard as he wanted, he'd end up beating the receiver through a cupboard. _Leia, goddamnit._ She had some nerve, Her Worship: freakin' out over his skinned knuckles and here _she_ was leaving him a note and running around in inclement weath—

No. No, they were probably on their way home now, Ben in the back. That wheezing jalopy of Kenobi's had probably packed it in on some—whatever the hell trip artists went on, and—and, shit. That was another worry, wasn't it? What if Ben's Ford Frankenstein or whatever the fuck had broken down in Akron, Ohio? It was freakishly easy to picture the wonder twins rocketing across states, across the night to the rescue. Jumpin' outta high windows into God knew what. Now Han almost hopped from foot to foot with obstructed kinetic energy. It itched and burned in his arteries, his pressure points. He wanted to do jumping jacks, cook it off like in the army but wouldn't that be somethin', if Luke's Buick pulled up then and Leia saw her husband, wild-eyed, exercising like the rookie dogface he'd been.

Son of a bitch. Han went back to pacing, so rapidly and hard that it was almost a march. He growled under his breath, his unconscious sound of frustration. _Solve this_ , he demanded of his brain, but all his mind-voice had to say was a helpless, _Leia._ Jesus, Han thought, that's all you got? His mind-voice was just like the phone: yap yap yap 90 percent of the time, then keepin' schtum when it counted.

 _Leia, Leia._ His worrying internal voice seemed to take on a younger timbre, a glimmer of real despair. _Damn it, call me. Sweetheart. Wouldja ple—_

This is what he'd been afraid of, when Han opened to love, to need. Han needed Leia, even broke enough from his rigid emotional ranks to say he did—hell, he went AWOL from most of his own life—because she was his wife, and he loved her, and damn it all he was trying to do something right. Han moved through the kitchen, dragging his hands through his hair. Somewhere out there tonight, Han knew Leia needed _him_ , she had for weeks! Only _she_ kept that word locked up tight behind her pretty white teeth, with the other stuff she wouldn't say.

Except to Luke, apparently. _Him,_ Leia could need openly.

Abruptly Han leapt to the mute phone, picked up the receiver, pressed it to his head. Stared blankly at the number wheel until the dial tone bleated. His eyes contracted into tight, furious crescents.

" _Don't charge her ramparts,_ " Han seethed into the mouthpiece, in a simpering, blistering voice. And he hammered the receiver down in its cradle with enough force to crack the Bakelite handle.

XXXXXXXXXX

Leia and Luke knelt on either side of Ben, taking the older man's hands in theirs. Staring at the paint webbed into Luke's knuckles, Leia felt herself reach out to her cousin. She knew he was afraid, but still Luke radiated only his natural, implacable compassion, even as Leia bit back her own panic. Every soft question Luke and Leia asked— _What is it? What's happened? Ben, are you all ri_ —went unanswered. Ben radiated warmth but he did not talk, as though rationing his breath for something else.

Ben's hands were stained with paint, too, and garden dirt, as they always were. But this layer was thicker, recent. When Luke helped Ben sit up, moving him more clearly into wavering candlelight, Leia flashed on what was different. Ben was not stained with his normal ochres, charcoals, gray-purples, blacks—the elegant but somewhat subdued spectrum his work was known for. No, Ben was streaked like a celebration. His arms, his face, his neck bore dots and streamers of color, blues and reds and violets and yellows, corals and pinks—like confetti, like fireworks at Alder Glen, like Leia and Luke's shared birthday cakes. Leia thought of her father's copies of _National Geographic._ She'd read, as a child, that people all over the world had historically observed joinings, births, funerals with anointment of their wisest in holy pigments. Ben looked like the last, Leia thought with wild, rising grief, of some dying ritualistic order. A shaman, a druid, a seer, a healer. An old knight guarding the Grail.

The older man laced his fingers with theirs, vivid color rubbing off onto younger hands. Leia smoothed the white hair from Ben's face, and saw with a gasp she only just suppressed that one side of his face was slightly slack. She and Luke made sudden, stricken eye contact. They needed to call an ambulance; she scanned the space for a phone, and met mostly darkness. "Ben." Luke's voice shook; Leia stroked Ben's brow. "We need to take you to the hospi—"

Ben smiled at them with such serene refusal that Leia felt her eyes fill with tears, felt her chest fill with desperate resolve. Oh, Leia was tired of marshalling herself, tired of strength being her involuntary response. Ben was dying, and she wanted to weep, free and unimpeachable, like a child. She wanted to grieve in peace, reprieved from responsibility. At home. With Han. She wanted Han. Leia needed Han, and there was no phone.

But Ben had his own plans. He inclined his chin at the canvases propped against the walls. Luke stood, picking up a saucer that held a burning candle. Ben turned to Leia; she caught her breath at the love and insistence she saw there, in his face. She rose. Together the cousins crossed the wide expanse of dark.

Luke knelt before the small collection of paintings. Leia picked up a palette studded with old wax stubs, and Luke lit them with his candle, the new light still warm but much clearer, illuminating the canvases. None of these were wet, and dust ran across the tops of the ones at the back. Some of the images were literal, some were abstract; Leia didn't respond to visual art the way Luke and Ben did, yet she could see the way the works seemed to move and breathe—to throb, to live—with light and stroke and color. Luke's touch to the paint was feathery, quizzical. The canvases bore no signature. "Not yours," Luke said, the words carrying to Ben in the hushed space. Luke let out a breath, shaking his head. "Ben, these are...these are..."

Leia felt an eerie sensation up her spine; youthful and grievous, all at once. A touch, an announcement of a presence, paused and formal, like someone awaiting introduction. Leia thought of the social debut her mother had wanted for her and that Leia refused: the appearance on the staircase in a frothy dress, the stilted dances. The endless potential breeding matches with ideal young men, all of them impeccably pedigreed, some of them tall and even handsome. But none of them with tousled hair and an off-center grin, shifting colors in his eyes, a ridged mark on the chin. A wry, tilted, skeptical slant to the lips.

 _I want Han here._ _I want_ —

"Hers," Ben managed.

And something in his voice directed their attention, made Luke and Leia turn as one and move to where Ben's syllable seemed to point. As they approached the long far wall of the loft the candles in their hands guttered as though with rising force of spirit, or of shock. The pitted plaster wall was dominated by a massive canvas. The work of decades, the work of a lifetime, smelling of new paint, the final strokes still fresh. Color—it was riotous with color—passionate, furious, emphatic, tender. Shades as bright and deep, varied and rich as the produce Ben had tended and reaped and shared, every year, from the earth. The painting gave off such power that Luke was awed into exhalation. Leia gasped in that lost breath, anguished and reverent.

It was a woman, a very young woman emerging from waves, emerging from what Leia recognized at once as Alder Lake. A small, playful sprite in an antique bathing suit Leia recognized from that box of Naberrie clothes—she knew the suit as a faded pink; here, it was urgent heartsblood red. Luke and Leia reached for one another's hands, and held on. It could have been either of their lost mothers, this beautiful figure, radiant and alive and rising from the water, her face brimming with youth and laughter and some wonderful secret that set her huge brown eyes alive forever.

"Mother," Luke whispered.

Leia shook her head, knowing the truth even as Ben said it. This was a person she had never known, but recognized all the same. And now the tears overspilled her eyes, but she could not speak; her store of words was barred to her, all at once. It was Luke who, still holding Leia's hand, turned to Ben and waited, his face filled with pain and a sort of kind, divine demand.

"No." Forcing himself upright on the floor, Ben swallowed a lifetime of love and grief. "It's Breha."


	51. Chapter 51

Author's Note: Opted for much later update rather than bring the angst in the immediate aftermath of Carrie Fisher's death. (You may still want to avoid these updates for the time being.) Can't express here just how I feel about the untimely loss of this unique, brilliant, brave, multi-talented, kind and funny woman, and what she's signified to me—but I know you all feel the same for her, so I don't have to try.

Thanks for hanging with me on this long trip, friends, and for understanding. One more cycle of chapters to go after this one.

And now we return to our soap. Xo!

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Ben kept his gaze on the painting as he began to talk. His speech was soft, halting, one corner of his mouth tugged slightly askew. But he seemed to draw strength from Leia and Luke, returned stunned to his sides, each holding one of his familiar gnarled hands—and mostly from the glowing image of Breha Naberrie, fuelling him like a solar cell.

Leia sat only half-absorbing Ben's words. She'd already known that Ben's family was the only one in New Hope that lived all year at Alder Glen, that they were very poor; that Ben's father was a nature guide for rich families that owned vacation cabins. Ben had mentioned once, in self-deprecating explanation of his shaky arithmetic, that he hadn't begun formal schooling until he was nine, because he was needed on his father's traplines. Ben's rare personal stories had been curios to the young cousins, fragments to be compared and fit together. But tonight, Leia knew Ben was extracting something whole from his past. Something insistently of a piece, inescapable. For the first time in her life, Leia's inquisitive mind balked at fact.

Luke, though, seemed starved for Ben's narrative. His eyes on his mentor were grieving, yes, but compassionate and encouraging, even relieved. Was there anything anyone could say to Luke, Leia wondered, that would shake him from his faithful, eager embrace of the world? When Leia's own confusion resounded so deeply it dazed her. Her focus returned to the laughing young woman rising from the lake, living a lovely, lost loop of a life that Leia could never have conjured. Ben and...Breha? Leia could not think _Mama_ in this context, not without _Papa,_ could not begin to consider—

For a time Ben paused, eyes closed. Her innate practicality battling back at shock, Leia whispered to Luke that Ben had to have called her from somewhere—was there a phone here? They had to call for an ambulance, call Han. No, Luke muttered, it must have been a payphone, they had to find it—when Ben began to speak again, quiet but resolute.

 _No. Listen. Please._

Leia hesitated. She had the powerful sense that it would be a gross indignity, even an abuse, to interrupt Ben now, even with the aim of saving his life. And how? Would she drop Ben's hand and run off into the night, through this huge industrial parking lot, or down along the riverbank, looking for a telephone booth? Would Luke? Knowing that one of them would have to stay with Ben, unless he—if—until when—

The only thing that seemed possible was to hear the truth.

XXXXXXXXXX

Summertime, Alder Lake. Ben had never had a friend before he met Padmé Naberrie on the beach. He was six. Ben was drawing, Padmé came to look, and declared her twin sister, Breha, the better artist. Padmé waved hesitant Breha over. The girls were identical, strikingly pretty, and very close, but vastly different in temperament. Twelve minutes older, Padmé was social. Assertive. Funny, whip-smart. Fearless, even hungry for risk. Breha was intuitive, sensitive, anxious, and deeply empathetic.

At first Ben only saw the girls at holidays, when the rich Naberries stayed at their cabin, but they became fast friends. Mr. Naberrie insisted, despite multiple corrections, that the trapper's boy was named _Ken_ Kenobi. This mortified Breha, and Padmé found it so ludicrous that she forever, fondly called him Kenny. He felt he could talk to them. Ben's father, Jim, took the children on walks; he was tickled by Padmé's precocious humor and when Breha presented him with a sketch of a fox, he pinned it up next to Ben's in the Kenobi kitchen. As a trio they climbed in the orchards, swam in the lake, sledded down the hill. Breha and Ben drew fruit, trees, birds; Padmé sat with them and read her books.

"When I started school, Breha and I. We drew together." Leia winced at this poignant, unintentional pun. "Traded off winning art prizes. Learning together, library art books. Trying to copy what we saw."

Ben looked affectionately at Luke, and Leia remembered a very young, wheat-haired boy at the Organas' kitchen table, crayon clutched in his fingers, stubbornly rendering a bowl of apples. Breha had brought little Luke paper after fresh paper, pencils, pens, never teasing him, smiling in a soft, delighted way that Leia now knew was recognition.

"In our teens I was afraid Padmé would resent me. I loved Breha by then, you see; and Padmé knew, too. Before Breha did, even."

Leia fought the rising lump in her throat to think of her young mother, falling in love as obliviously, inadvertently and obviously as her daughter one day would.

"But Padmé was generous. More wilful than Breha, more defiant, but as kind." He squeezed each cousin's hand. "And it was innocent, then, Breha and me. We were so young. Breha's art still very respectable, to her parents. As long as she was sketching roses. But painting is...is..."

Ben's voice dropped off into—what, Leia wondered. Modesty? Reticence? No, it was a kind of shame. Still in ways a boy of his era, Ben looked to Luke as though for help. Luke shot Leia a newly worldly glance communicating that painting could be lustiness, texture, earthiness, touch.

"The life force," Luke said, so gently and sweetly, so without condemnation, that Leia bowed her head before her cousin's natural sense of mercy. Ben nodded, breathless and reprieved.

"We started painting together. Your workshop, Leia—your young man's—her father never used it. Something happened to our work when we learned together that was greater...truer than when we were apart." Ben let his eyes close into memory. "One day on the beach I told her—oh I knew I was poor, had nothing to give her but—I told Breha I loved her. And she told me."

His eyes opened, now intensely blue. Leia followed Ben's gaze onto the Breha he'd—no, not _captured,_ not _created_ ; no word was quite right to describe whatever excruciating and exalting process Ben had endured to call this Breha forth on canvas. Perhaps _channelled_ was the closest. Leia stared at this young woman who was her mother. And almost rose, then, on a wave of dizziness. How could she stand this? But Ben seemed newly electrified, energized enough that Leia hid in a rare bout of magical thinking. She told one of the only lies of her life, told it to herself: that Ben was getting better with his telling. She _had_ to stand this. If Ben could just free his secret, once precious but now poisoning him, then surely, surely, he would be all right.

Desperately Leia braced herself against her own pain. Reached across Ben's chest to take Luke's free hand. She and Luke would shoulder Ben's story and this would fix Ben, somehow, yes...or at least soothe him enough that he could be bidden into R2 and to the hospital in Mantell. Leia could endure this talking cure, whatever it meant about her parents' marriage, whatever her protective feelings for Bail. Leia was not a child, after all, she rallied herself; she was a woman, she knew love. She had Han, a job, a life. Leia could approach Breha not as her daughter, not see Breha as mother or wife, but as another woman with a right to her own past, ambitions, passions, truths.

Urgency eased Ben's labored speech. He got the scholarship to the New York School of Art. That prize wasn't open to girls at New Hope High School but kind Breha was overjoyed for him. She wanted to go to art school, too, got the nerve to ask her parents. They refused. "Said it was _unseemly_." An anger Leia had never perceived in Ben tinged his voice, and she had a vision of how he was then: talented but generous, intense but kindly. Messy auburn hair, faint copper freckles across the bridge of his nose. A ready smile almost too broad for his face.

Ben said they should run away together. They'd read how artists travelled, penniless, lived in attics—Amsterdam, Paris— starving, making love and art.

"All very romantic to us, when we were still...when we were utter innocents."

Leia looked again at the objects surrounding them, stubbornly warming a corner of this dark space. Plump silk cushions, Moroccan hangings, two high, armless chairs of Indian teak. The significance of these accoutrements struck painfully at Leia's heart. She pictured Breha accruing them not only as lovers' comforts but as symbolic promise to herself that they would have that worldly artists' life: almost little postcards from the future.

" _Come with me,_ I said. Like it was simple." Ben gave his young self a tiny, harsh scoff. But Breha couldn't hurt her parents like that. Padmé was adventurous, gave the Naberries fits, but Breha was fragile, empathetic to the point of pain. More dependent on their approval. Breha was quietly resentful of her parents, though, for obstructing her painting. Not angry enough to leave, but angry enough to, she said, _live a little._ And Leia felt a new pang to remember the authentic generosity and support in her mother's voice whenever Leia emerged from Priscilla's dressing room in some wonderful frock. "Oh go on, darling: let's get it. Let's live a little." Even as she shied away from Leia's plans for a career, hated Leia learning to drive.

The summer before Ben left for New York, the twins hatched a plan. They applied to study as legal secretaries at Mantell College, then petitioned their parents to let them live in the small city, together, at a very correct ladies' boarding house. The Naberries at first refused—no girls of their status should even leave home before marriage, let alone work. Padmé switched tactics. She heavily implied one night at dinner that if the sisters weren't allowed some freedom, they could become...fractious. Running her fingers through her newly bobbed hair for emphasis. And Breha stared down their parents in stony silence, when usually her reliable obedience moderated the fiery drive of her sister. One rebellious daughter the Naberries could only just manage. But two? They agreed, grudgingly, to let the girls go, and Mrs. Naberrie only because she hoped they would meet eligible lawyers.

"I got the lease on this place," Ben said. It used to be a loggers' apartment house; there was plumbing then, a kitchenette. Docks down the river, the sawmill. Nothing else. "No one we knew would see us. I lived here most of the summer, painting, waiting for her." Often Breha skipped classes to join Ben, to work with him; Padmé was so bright she tore through the course for both of them, made up whatever Breha missed. Even pretended to be Breha, for a few makeup tests.

Learning was too easy for Padmé, and her path to challenging education blocked. She wanted something she couldn't find, something intense. In Mantell she went to jazz clubs alone and danced; sometimes she just drove around all night in her Packard convertible, smoking cigarettes. "But Breha and I, we were so happy." Ben glowed and winced, transported in time. "We'd work, we'd talk, play the gramophone, we'd—"

The way Ben's eyes moved over the melted candles, the soft surfaces, made a tender history clear: not to mention that he'd preserved this space for so many years.

Leia thought of Han, lathing new hickory legs for the big easy chair when it developed a recent list to the left. When he proudly put the chair back in its place under the window, slinging his arm around her waist, expecting praise— _y'know,_ _sometimes I amaze even myself_ —Leia slyly said they could have just replaced it. Han was aghast, as if Leia had suggested tossing a basket of pups into the Kessel River, then narrowed his eyes. "Aahhh- _hah_ , funny girl," he said, ticking his index finger side to side like a scolding metronome. "Makin' fun of me, my favorite chair." Han swept Leia up into bridal grasp so fast that her laughter was lost in her gasp, lost in his kiss. "Now, that ain't nice, Princess," Han murmured against her mouth. "Maybe we all oughta get reacquainted."

Love. Want. Commitment; these seemed to Leia, in this moment, like inalienable rights, both desperately precious and so far passed from this dark, lonely place that Leia could only yearn for them herself. She squeezed her eyes shut against the sudden thought of Han's loss, so breath-stealing and terrible that it felt almost premonitory.

XXXXXXXXXX

August 26, 1933. The night before Ben left for New York. With his scholarship money he took the twins for a fancy dinner, then to the Mantell Cinema. At the restaurant, Breha had been cheerful, even giddy, which was a relief to Ben. He so loved her, and she was so emotionally delicate, that he'd been dreading leaving her—even as he felt stealthily, guiltily excited for his adventure.

The trio drank so much champagne that they were tipsy through most of the film, a musical. Padmé kept everyone around them in stitches with droll, witty commentary on the silly love story. But when the dance sequence began, the frames shifted with no warning from black-and-white to Technicolor, which no one outside Indianapolis had seen before. The theater gasped. It was glorious, everything all at once and all together: the saturated spectrum in motion; waves of sound; the uncanny, fluid unison of the dancers. Padmé clapped her hands to her face, a habit she had when overwhelmed. Ben laughed in awe, squeezing Breha's hand. But Breha gave a little cry—a sound she made, sometimes, when they were alone together, as though she could not withstand so much feeling at once. As though too much beauty pained her. This sound so familiar and dear and secret to Ben that he'd felt blood heat his neck as he turned to Breha. Her lovely face was luminous with Technicolor, refracted through what Ben realized were tears.

And Breha had broken down, then, crying silently, ceaselessly even as Ben and Padmé hurried her from the theater, wrapped in their arms. On the streetcar Padmé softly sang the film's big song, "Happy Days Are Here Again," stroking her sister's hair in a way that Ben understood, by now, was unconscious. Back in their hideaway, Breha had gripped Ben's hand so hard through her sleep that he'd left for New York with lurid red marks in his palm.

But Ben _had_ left. Left her. Breha never asked him not to; even insisted he go, rearranging herself into glassy morning calm.

He'd known better. And he had still gone.

XXXXXXXXXX

"It was so cheap we kept up the rent, even with me in New York. A place for Breha to create, work—oh, her _work_ —did you see it, Luke?" The intensity in Ben's voice touched Leia, and so did the conviction in Luke's simple, "Yes." The exchange spoke of how shaken both artists were by the magnitude of Breha's talent. How had her mother repressed a power, a sensibility like that? That drive to create was irrepressible, Leia knew herself. Yet neither she nor Luke had ever guessed that Breha Organa felt, or suppressed, any impulse of the sort.

Ben and Breha wrote one another every day. And then Breha wrote that she and Padmé had passed their secretarial course and they would visit New York over the winter break, just after Christmas. Ben's father had died, leaving him his land, but other than Breha Ben had no other reason to go back for the holidays. He was overjoyed that they would come to him instead. The girls had told their delighted parents they were going to New York to investigate elite finishing schools.

Meanwhile Padmé was dangerously bored in New Hope, bored with Mantell, with lack of outlet for her ravenous intellect. And Breha, seized by growing sense of her talent and missing Ben, thought of the trip as a taste of the romantic artist's life she yearned for. Padmé would stay in their uptown hotel, and Breha would, she wrote with uncharacteristic boldness, lodge with Ben in his attic flat in Greenwich Village.

After that, Breha planned to go home and break the news to her parents that she was going to become an artist, marry Ben. They would be angry at first, Breha wrote—they'd been amassing suitable bachelors for the girls, planning debutante events—but they'd come around, surely. And in the meantime she'd been saving her small allowance for years; Ben had his scholarship stipend. They could have a life—bare-bones, to be sure, but together, and making art. What did Ben think?

Ben carefully lettered back page after page of one repeated word in beautiful, exuberant, ridiculously elaborate fonts and colored inks: _yes. Yes. Yes. Yes._

Pain and tenderness moved across Ben's face. Leia had the absurd but mounting hope—and saw it reflected in Luke—that Ben would stop speaking, here, somehow fixing the young lovers in a happy ending. But Ben moved on, as Leia knew, by fact of her own existence, that he must.

"In the end," Ben said hoarsely, "Breha and I had two perfect weeks in New York City. Love, work. Freedom. Youth. And it was then, it must have been—"

Ben stopped again—this time for a long while, eyes closed, his breathing shallow. Was Ben losing strength, or mustering it for a last, terrible trial? Or choosing to look just a bit longer into the castoff light of some lost life?

"We were young, reckless. Now I think...we believed our talent protected us."

Leia could feel new heat rising from Ben's skin, enough to burn away the last of Leia's lie to herself. Ben was not getting better. Luke pressed the back of his paint-webbed hand to Ben's forehead, and looked at Leia with mute helplessness. _We both love Ben too much,_ Leia thought, bleakly. _We need Han._ Han who had no patience for sentiment, or what he called _speechifyin'—_ Han who'd once snorted at Luke's notion of heaven as living forever in your happiest memory. _Sorry, kid. Dead is dead._ Yes, that was in the first week she'd known Han, when he was busily promoting himself as the embodiment of callousness—he was softer now. Still, Leia knew Han would wrangle Ben to the hospital without any concerns of respect for the older man's essential self.

But Han didn't know Ben as she and Luke did. Didn't know his dignity, integrity, his quiet, resolute pursuit of visible truths. Ben's eyes on hers, on Luke's, were so knowing, pained, and trusting at once. _Please._ _Don't further wound a dying man._

XXXXXXXXXX

Together the young lovers had explored New York, joined by Padmé. Both girls were free, gleeful, Padmé's impatience diluted in the city that ran fast as her mind. At night the trio would meet with Ben's art school friends for drinks, for the kind of talk that seemed important. Love, art. Politics. How to set the world to rights. Ben squinted into shadowed iron rafters, as though seeking some other answer. "This is how Padmé met Anakin Skywalker."

Luke froze. "You were." He gulped. "Friends? With my father?"

"Yes." Ben cancelled this statement with a flick of his eyelids. "No. I was the closest to him, but Anakin did not allow anyone to be his friend. He pushed away. Burned up. Everything, too much. We all drank; he drank like he wanted to die. We all worked hard; Anakin painted until he collapsed at his easel."

Luke sat suddenly forward, eyes almost turquoise in the candlelight. " _Father_ —? Father was an—"

"The most talented natural artist I ever knew." Ben held Luke's eyes. "Until you."

And there it was, the slightest flicker of disquiet, of mistrust, in Luke's open face. Maybe the first ever. Leia saw it, could almost hear Luke's stalling thoughts— _how could, you never, how could_ —and tightened her hand on his.

The prodigy, Anakin Skywalker. He was Californian, tall and blond, tanned; skinny, then. Very young he'd won awards, even sold work in a gallery, and none of it seemed to make him happy. None of it seemed to nourish him. He never slept. His work raged with energy. Anakin didn't speak of his past but the rumor was he'd won a scholarship for severely disadvantaged boys. Ben felt the award made Anakin defensive. He liked Anakin; he was charismatic, clever, competitive. Extraordinarily wilful. Darkly witty, a tremendous mimic.

He was also aggressive. Endlessly provoked by a world that denied him what he would not admit he needed. Anakin Skywalker never even seemed to _want_ anything, until the night he met Padmé Naberrie. New Year's Eve. The two had clasped hands in meeting at Ben's attic, and shocked the party with literal sparks, eerie blue static at their touch. The pair laughed. And then they'd stared at one another, stricken, not sure who'd first had the lightning in their fingers.

Breha hated Anakin on sight.

It was unlike gentle Breha to muster such vehement dislike, but she said she didn't trust Anakin, that when he looked at her sister, his eyes got strange. _Possessed,_ was the word Breha used. But Padmé hotly returned the young artist's desire. He was handsome, magnetic, wildly talented, but mostly it was as if Anakin's contentiousness felt to Padmé like autonomy. Loving him felt like the freedom and action she'd have enacted her own life, had she shared his gender. They began spending every day together, every night in Anakin's shabby Bowery flat. Padmé became inaccessible—Ben was happy for his friends, but Breha believed Anakin was deliberately isolating her.

In Ben's apartment, the night before the girls were due to return to New Hope, Padmé and Anakin announced that they had married and she was staying in New York. _Married?_ Ben was shocked, though he rallied, shaking Anakin's hand, hugging Padmé. But Breha got sick, literally sick, barely making it to the porcelain sink where they washed their paintbrushes. Anakin's face flared with outraged pride, calling Breha a snob even before she'd straightened up. _It's not that, man,_ was all Ben could say, rubbing Breha's back—he, more that anyone else, knew that Breha was no snob.

The twins threw themselves into their first and only fight. Breha was maddened by premonition of harm befalling her sister at her new bridegroom's hands—she cried this right in front of Anakin, _he'll hurt you, P, he'll hurt you._ And Padmé sobbed, stunned, betrayed; she had thought Breha of all people would understand, after she had so supported Breha's own clandestine love affair. She accused Breha of disloyalty, hypocrisy, before Anakin dragged her out.

It was almost worse that the girls had never clashed before, Ben thought, because their unique organism hadn't been inoculated against conflict. Breha was so distraught that Ben tried to convince her to stay in New York, too—whether they married or not was up to her, but it upset him to imagine sensitive Breha, who had never truly been alone, travelling home on the train in such a state. But their parents couldn't be abandoned by both daughters at once, Breha said, and steeled her nerves for the solitary trip.

The Naberries cut Padmé's allowance off, thinking this would bring their wayward daughter to heel; with her new certification, Padmé marched out and got a job at a Midtown law firm called Organa Hill Myerson.

From New Hope, Breha and Ben wrote each other for three months. Breha said she was committed to their marriage plans, but was shaken by her parents' punitive rage at her sister, which she hadn't anticipated. What would it do to her mother and father if Breha also disappointed them?

 _You can't live for anyone else,_ Ben wrote back. _An artist chooses an artist's life._ The older Ben spat out these lofty young words as though they were corrosive, now, in his mouth.

She was terrifically lonely, Breha wrote, without him, without Padmé. Her conciliatory letters to her twin were returned unopened, marked _not at this address,_ drawing ink letters carved into the envelope so hard they were visible in the stationery beneath. And Breha couldn't get to their makeshift Yavin nest to work. Her parents kept a close eye on her now, after Padmé's defection, and Breha didn't drive: her twin had been the one spirited enough to earn her license. Ben missed Breha too, and often told her, but she didn't seem to believe him, and in retrospect, why would she? He had perfect freedom, he was sure of her love; he had inspiring work; he even saw his friends, though Anakin and Padmé avoided him.

In her dutiful isolation, Breha began spending time with her next-door neighbor, her childhood classmate. When they were girls, Erin Palpatine used to steal: mostly trinkets from Breha's vanity table. Kindly Breha claimed poor Erin craved the notice of her father, the ruthless corporate raider Sheev Palpatine; Padmé countered, _Don't be a sucker, B._ Padmé said Erin just loved the power. The power to take, have, conquer.

When Erin saw Ben talking to Breha at school, she began stealing from _him_ —the richest girl in town stealing from the poorest boy. Quietly Ben laughed, something ugly crackling in his chest. He'd thought he had nothing to to steal, but leave it to Erin; she'd tear the buttons from Ben's jacket. Take the mittens his mother knitted and soak them in the bathroom sink. Break his best pencil and put it in his coat pocket, where he'd be sure to find it. Despite her aggression toward him, Ben didn't consider Erin Palpatine much at all, and this had seemed to spur her further—she damaged his homework, took his textbooks. In eighth grade, Ben's mother died of cancer, and where Breha earnestly entreated Erin to be kinder to him, Padmé told Erin if she ever touched anything of Kenny's again, she'd slap her down Main Street. Ben allowed himself a fond smile at this, letting his eyes linger on first Luke's face, then Leia's.

But Erin had changed as an adult, Breha wrote to Ben. Her declarations that Erin was a supportive friend had a frantic edge. Ben wrote back he'd come home for a bit, that he missed her, that he'd take time off school. Too quickly, Breha refused, and Ben accepted her refusal. Then, in the last letters, Breha wasn't herself. Anxiety and despair had completely overwhelmed her rich creative force. The final letter was cryptic, frantic. Ben choked, now, to repeat Breha's self-abuse. Said she'd ruined everything. Called herself a bad daughter, bad lover, bad artist, a failure. Said he'd probably hate her, one day. Useless. Stupid, weak. Cowardly. Unable to cope.

Horror-stricken, Ben telephoned the Naberrie house at once, which she'd made him promise never to do; the maid said she was out with her neighbor, Erin Palpatine—Erin _Isolder_ by then, married off to one of her father's business partners, 25 years her senior. The letters stopped. Ben called every day. The maid said Miss Naberrie had gone on a trip, then began to hang up when she heard his voice. Ben met with Padmé in a Greenwich coffee shop; Padmé brought Anakin, who was edgy, snappish, wouldn't look Ben in the eye. Anakin brought up Breha's condemnation of their relationship when Padmé immediately said she'd go home to find her twin. Ben was shocked when headstrong, loyal Padmé changed her mind.

He began to see Anakin through Breha's eyes.

Ben left for New Hope in a panic. Missed a final project; his advisor, Professor Jinn, covered for him. He turned up on the Naberries' doorstep. Mr. Naberrie, whom Ben had always known as courtly if staid, threatened to _break your damned nose, Ken_ if he ever came back. Strangely, Ben was happy at the threat—it must mean Breha's father had found out about the affair and was enraged, which was a hell of a lot better than grieving. It relieved the pressure of the word that Ben hadn't allowed himself to think about Breha, which was _suicide_. Ben _did_ go back, and back, and back, but now the gates to the big house were locked, and no one ever answered the intercom. It was the same next door, at the Palpatine place—but then, their gates had always been closed to the likes of him.

He tried their Yavin studio, of course. It was dusty; hadn't been used for months, and he couldn't stay for long. It hurt too much.

Padmé called home, but her parents refused to speak to her, she told Ben when he reached her at work in New York. She and Anakin did not have a phone in their artist's flat. Ben suspected she didn't want Anakin to know she was trying to find her twin. _Tell me what to do, I'll do it,_ Ben begged Padmé. _I'll do anything, anything for her._ But neither of them knew where to look. Ben began to believe Breha—yes, meek Breha—had gone after that artist's life on her own. He went back to New York, but neglected his studies, spending all his change at the payphone, calling art schools across the United States. Padmé telephoned all the major schools in Europe from her office; she said Bail Organa, the kind young lawyer she worked for, footed the long-distance charges. _Nothing._

For months this went on, desperate searching. Anakin did not help, glowering when Ben came by his flat, though he didn't confront him in front of Padmé. No, Anakin cornered Ben at school, where Ben was trying to make up the minimum of work to keep his scholarship, and told him to stay away from his wife. Ben was a patient man, but he was exhausted. As though the twins were interchangeable? Ben spat. If Ben lost one, he'd simply take up with the other? Ben and Padmé were childhood friends. _Friends, Anakin._

Friends? Childhood? None of this registered with Anakin.

Ben dragged a hand through his hair, indicated a thinned arm. "Christ, man, _look_ at me, do I look like—I've lost ten pounds, worrying ov—I'm about to flunk ou—" Ben tried again. "I love Padmé, of course, _of course,_ but. _As a_ _sister._ "

"She's mine," Anakin snarled.

His eyes were hot, volatile, and empty, the way they sometimes got when another artist received attention or prizes Anakin felt entitled to. Ben had never taken his selfishness personally, especially after Padmé let slip that Anakin had grown up in some hellish institution. But Anakin's greed alienated their friends. Anakin didn't mean it, Ben protested at the pub, he was a nice guy when you got to know him. Oh, Anakin means it all right, Professor Jinn finally roared at them: Skywalker would rip out their throats if it meant a crumb for himself. He _isn't_ a nice guy, Kenobi: _you're_ a nice guy. Skywalker is a ruthless prick, and brilliant! So what if Anakin saw others' good fortune as _theft from him._ So what if he pissed like some beast around every prize. They could all shut their gobs if they didn't like it. Or get busy sculpting weapons of their own genius.

Well, that was Jinn. He had interesting methods of motivation.

" _I_ love her. She's mine." Anakin repeated this with biting emphasis, his voice grinding and deep, setting Ben's teeth on edge. Ben stepped forward into the taller man. "If you believe I would do... _that,_ " Ben said, his voice trembling with restraint, "then you don't know enough to love anyone."


	52. Chapter 52

When the phone rang, Han wasn't asleep. He was on the kitchen floor, where he couldn't see the clock or the windows revealing the blowing snow; if he looked at those, he'd go nuts. So Han sat with knees drawn up under elbows, back against a lower cabinet. Incessantly turning the situation over in his mind like a stray bolt in his hands. _Fix fix fix._ Han thumped the back of his head against wood to the inescapable march of this thought. He could not exhaust himself and his frustration with this had exhausted him. _Great._ Now he was starting to think in crazy riddles like Luke or Chew—

Han was on his feet and seizing the yellow receiver before the ring had cleared three seconds.

The caller _was_ Chewie, his thick speech articulated with touching effort. Han knew how deeply his best friend dreaded the phone, that he didn't even keep one in his home. He'd noticed that Chewie relied on the businesslike Suzette or the garrulous Janson to field and make all the diner's calls. But Chewie would be humiliated to _know_ Han noticed; it was as though Chewie felt no worry was allowable when you were built to his scale. Han could almost see the resolute set of Chewie's massive shoulders as he approached the hated device bolted to the diner's wall. Han exhaled. It wasn't relief Han felt—no, he couldn't get there right now, not when Leia and Luke had been gone in a near-blizzard for almost three hours—but whatever Han felt at Chewie's gesture, he leaned a forearm on the refrigerator under its weight.

Han went through the problem, reverting to a rapid summarizing style they'd been taught in the army. Chewie stopped him with a thoughtful grunt as Han said Leia must have had a phone call from Ben. When Chewie suggested Han trace back the last numbers that had called the cabin, get the locations, all Han's fondness and gratitude combusted into stress-fuelled indignation. The phone was an arm of the devil, Chewie would warn anyone who'd listen—but he _loved_ his television programs.

"You and that fuckin' _box,_ I swea...rrrrggggrrrr _ghhh!_ " Han ground his teeth, ground his knuckles between his brows. "Who'n the hell you think I _am_ , Chewie? Peter Gunn?"

One of the most infuriating things about Chewie, to Han, was that he never took Han's sarcastic bait. He'd just _wait,_ forcing Han to either honestly engage or storm away, pride intact. Tonight Han reined his sharp tongue, both men knowing that Leia could at any moment be getting a busy signal. His grip tightened on the receiver until cracked Bakelite bit at his calloused fingers. "C'mon, man," Han said. It was a gritted-out plea. "I can't just trace a—"

Chewie said, with unflappable patience, that maybe a cop could.

Instantly, intolerably provoked again, Han snapped, "What an _idea!_ " He did a manic dance of fury in his sock feet. "Lemme check the damn Cheerios for _my very own_ sheriff's badg _—_ "

And stopped. Blinked.

" _You_ should be on TV." Han said, into the even silence Chewie maintained for compliments as well as insults. "Chewie's Viking Detective Hour, once a week." Stretching the phone cord, receiver clamped between ear and shoulder, Han lunged for the peacoat thrown across a kitchen chair. "First you crack that wedding bullshit, now this." Delving into the pocket where he kept his wallet, Han twisted leather almost inside out until he found the small card. "Where would I be without you, pal?"

Chewie rumbled that he didn't know that. But what he _did_ know was that without Han, Chewie would be long dead, left broken-legged and frozen, far from home. Certainly not in the well-kept diner he owned himself, warm and fed; pie in the oven, money in the bank. So Han could think of Chewie's help as interest on a debt.

"Ah, shit. Ain't no debt." Han croaked. "I'm sure glad we're—" Savagely he pinched the stinging bridge of his nose until he managed a shaky jocularity. "You wouldn'ta _froze,_ you ham. Not with that damn fur coat."

Chewie grinned gently to himself, and did not force further emotion on his overloading friend. He said he had to go; he was understaffed at the diner, and "Gunsmoke" started in an hour.

Scanning the card, Han clapped the receiver down. Lifted it again and dialled Crix Madine.

XXXXXXXXXX

Throwing on his coat a half-hour later, Han paused. Madine had provided him a place to look, but there was no guarantee Leia and Luke were still there, or that they'd found the old man at all. Han faced the same problem as before: what if Leia called home and no one answered? He chewed the inside of his cheek, then swiftly thrust his feet into his winter boots. The hell with it all, he was going. It was well below freezing, and his girl was out in it.

As Han slipped his knife into the inside pull-up strap of his right boot, where it rode hidden at the top of his calf, there was a knock at the door. Han stood and jerked it open. On the porch, a typically stoic Wedge Antilles stood dusted in snow; behind him Wes Janson lounged against a post.

"Mr. Chewie said you needed someone to answer the phones?" Janson simpered. Then he cringed, reflexively looking around as though Leia could hear him. She really taxed him in mockery dollars when he did his sexy secretary bit. Leia wasn't here _now_ to gear him about it, but Wedge's lowering brows did her work for her. What was it Antilles had said to him, on the snowy drive? _Christ, Wes, cut Solo some slack tonight._ And he'd meant to! Janson cared deeply for Luke and Leia too, and Ben Kenobi was one of their own. Plus, Solo still kinda freaked him out. After Theo Isolder's _face?!_ Janson was respectably tough, Wedge a legit scrapper, but Solo had _professionally_ fucked Richie Rich up.

Falling back a step to let the two Rogues inside the cabin, Han felt surprise and relief color his neck and cheeks; instinctively he wanted to stop it, though he knew his _..._ his friends were entitled to see it. "Nice of you guys to drop by," Han drawled, planting a huge foot on the bench just inside the door and tying his boot. As he switched sides, he wondered: why was _thank you_ so goddamned hard to get his tongue around?

Seeing the broad shoulders shift in Solo's coat as he tightened his laces like garrottes, Janson thought of Isolder again. Even pitied him, the stupid prick, even though he'd picked on everyone all his life. Solo would always carry a little threat in the set of his back and y'know the guy had something stashed. Who'd wanna get between Leia Organa and _that?_ But Solo's face—his hard face looked, to Janson, kinda off. He'd never seen it like that, sort of...hurt, or _hurtable_ , at least.

"Hey, whack," Janson said, making a rare and mighty effort to modulate his voice. "Y'know she's alright. Go get 'em, yeah? They're alright."

Nodding, Solo blew out his breath as though rejecting any chance of the alternative.

"Got tire chains, Solo?" was all Antilles said, his fox-shrewd face contained as ever. Han put his boot to the floor and his shoulders back. He flashed both men a brief, thankful grin, faint but real. "Y'know I do."

Wedge clapped Han on the shoulder like he was clearing him for action. Han slapped him back and strode through the door into blowing snow. The two Rogues watched him go.

"We're just here to get the jukebox," Janson called after the tall figure, then gave his scowling best friend a careless shrug, like the ones that Solo used to pull off all cool before he fell in love. "Look, pal. I am what I a... _aaahhhiigghh!"_

Hard fingers mercilessly pincered Wes' earlobe, then pulled.

"No," Wedge Antilles ordered.


	53. Chapter 53

The rural road was completely unplowed. It was a short downhill slope, so Han stayed in low gear and let Millie slide, carefully steering her to the cleared main highway. He accelerated then, went up gears. He was going faster than he normally would in these conditions, but Han trusted his reflexes, Millie's responses. Had to trust his sense of direction, too—all he had to work with was an address in...Yavin? A part of New Hope he'd never seen, plus some directions from Madine, a man newer to town than even Han. Han had checked his map. It wasn't detailed with the ins and outs of the riverfront. Still, Han was familiar with docks and the industrial buildings built to support them; this could be similar, in miniature. And Millie seemed to sense their mission, to love her mistress almost as much as Han did, and he knew she would keep him moving.

Han snapped the radio on. The signal was fitful, snatches of music interrupted by hectic fuzz. Roy Orbison's haunting voice broke through: _in dreams, you're mine, all of the_ —before the song was lost to static. The white noise seemed to give sound to the streaking snow pulled into Han's headlights. Or it was him being pulled, dreamlike, into the night.

God, his side was cold without her.

No. No. Leia was counting on Han to keep a clear head. So he could not, now, yield to his heart. Han could not think of his wife, not with any emotional depth. If he did, he'd sense all he had to lose, and he could falter. He had to keep his cool; get colder, even, cold and hard as the ridged banks lining the highway. Cold as Chosin Reservoir.

He wasn't one of the superstitious types, in Korea. No sign of the evil eye for Han Solo, no clovers mailed from Oklahoma, no pendants blessed in travelling tents, no salt thrown over his left shoulder. Han didn't wear a cross, a star, or Michael's medal; he didn't carry copper other than the jacket on his bullets. But most guys were different.

Late one night after an impromptu drinking session in the canteen, Han couldn't sleep: the tipsy slickster in the upper bunk across from his kept toying with an elastic on his wrist. Snapping it in sets of threes, _snick snick snick._ Rest. _Snick sni—_

"Y'know. If it's tits up," Han heard himself say, his tongue thickened with free Pabst Blue Ribbon, "that's it. Right?"

It was a risk, trespassing on a man's sense of control over his own safety. Most fights Han had ever seen, or been involved in himself—many in a bunkroom much like this—were lit by someone's fuse of anxiety. But Han knew this genial guy wasn't a fellow rider of the vigilant edge. He wasn't no orphan, no bastard neither; he got regular letters from his mother and father, sisters.

There was something about his extroverted neighbor that both irritated Han and put him at ease. Han guessed he liked him—though without the symphonic level of good feeling he'd got in his gut about the giant who snored now in the bunk just below his. From the wary corner Han staked out in the canteen, where he could drink with his back hard to the wall, he'd seen the big guy was shy. The crowd, the haze of smoke, seemed to make him nervous, plus he avoided the same hazing bully assholes Han did. So on a whim Han kicked out a seat to his bunkmate, then watched him pound his way through 28 lagers that he didn't seem to enjoy all that much. Han was pretty sure the red-furred feller had slurred somethin' about _friend, we_ _honor_ _the mead hall_ before he keeled over _._

"Just a habit, buddy." The man with the popped collar smiled, folded his pillow between the wall and his head. "Takes the edge off some."

Yeah, but, Han heard himself counter, frowning down his wavering pointer finger, humans just weren't that damned important. If your name was on a grenade, there was no erasin' it. That shit was—was—

"Engraved?" The guy smoothly supplied, with only slight bemusement.

" _Fixed._ " Han waved a hand. "Like a slot machine."

"Slots, huh?" The slickster's groomed eyebrows quirked as he picked up the young cynic's familiar accent, more apparent in intoxication. "Hey, homepiece. You play cards?"

XXXXXXXXXX

Lando Calrissian ran a regular poker game. He had no shortage of buddies waiting to play, but because Han was from Lando's city, he cut him in. Han was a quick study. No one minded this kid cleaning them out, the guys were mostly there for talking, drinking, clinging to sanity. They paid more attention to one another's snapshots than to their cards. Pictures constantly changed hands, passed around the table with spare smokes, fresh cans of beer. Girlfriends, wives, babies, wheels. Han had no pictures worth showing— _hey fellas, here's me with my dead mother_ —and he knew the guys in Lando's game pitied him for it some, that he had no folks, no girl. Han got no care packages from the States (though he was touched when his huge new friend Chewie shared, with only him, the unbelievable cookies his baker father sent). He got no candy bars, postcards, comics; no scented envelopes with private Polaroids and mash notes. _That_ stuff didn't get shared, but when they got a look under that pink paper you could hear guys whimper like they'd been whipped.

But Han was well past conscious craving for attachment. Hell, he pitied _them_ guys, the yawning pits in their eyes when they talked of home. The awful mooning over their wedding photos, or their evolving sons and daughters. They said their wives' names and that was the worst, the tortured, faraway look. Something sweet in the mouth become a curse. Han almost couldn't stand it, the fingers tracing scripture inked on each picture's reverse. _Angel-baby. St. Joseph's. 1948._ Nicknames, places, dates, inside jokes already fading, always receding. What was the point? Han never said it, knew it was unthinkable to most, but a lotta grunts, himself maybe included, weren't gonna make it back. At 19 Han prided himself on facing blunt truths, while never facing his own repressed conviction: _Death without love won't hurt so bad._

Yeah, okay. Han _did_ envy the Polaroids. The perfumed, racy letters. Sex was something everyone missed. Han was no different, rifling past trysts in a quest for crude relief, thinking not of his fist but some nameless female who vanished the instant he came. But somehow this anonymous figure changed, over the course of his enlistment. Not consciously, but in dreams, Han conjured a girl he knew, a girl he desperately missed, a girl who knew Han Solo enough to miss him. She missed him enough to project her secret self to him in images and in urgent text— _Dear Han, I can't sleep for thinking of how we—._ And the end of that sentence changed in Han's subconscious, ranging from the outright lewd to a dreamy, heavy sweetness. Dreams not of mere lust but of closeness. A closeness become lust become closeness, some intimate, infinite numeral 8. Carnally jaded as young Han already was—maybe _because_ —this recurrent dream stopped his sleeping breath. But Han didn't allow himself to recall his haunting by daylight; he didn't want to know his sweet white ghost. She hovered too close to neediness.

How Han shuddered to see his fellow soldiers' need, amazed they could wear it as they did, natural and vulnerable as skin. But he displayed interest in their pictures anyway, because it was expected, even if his participation was awkward. _Hey, that's sure some baby, huh._ Photographs were proof that you existed in your own life, in the life of someone else. Even Han, with his poverty of images, got that. Or maybe he knew that more than most.

And so he politely accepted Lando's picture, when he passed it over.

In the shot Lando leaned against a white truck, posed with a girl, all dressed up. Han got the curious impression that the snapshot's focus wasn't the truck, the pretty chick, or even Lando himself. The star of Lando's picture was his _look_ : drapey suit, short wide tie and white patent shoes. Even trend-indifferent Han knew that the clothes had, then, been cutting edge. But when Lando bitched that he had no more recent picture, Han understood that the guy hated being stuck in time, permanently endorsing debunked style.

Lando seemed almost relieved when Han focused on the truck.

"What's the ride?" Han asked around his Lucky Strike, squinting through the smoke collecting under harsh canteen light. Like he didn't already know: it was a '49 Chevrolet pickup. Looking at it, at that particular truck, Han felt an unmistakable spike of excitement in his gut. He said nothing of this. He kept his bona fides tucked into the sleeve of his olive t-shirt, with his pack of cigarettes.

It had been Lando's neighbor's Chevy, used in some type of illicit deliveries. The truck wasn't too old but hadn't been kept up right, so Lando got it cheap. With a shrug, Lando folded away the picture, calling the Chev a beater he was driving until he made bank. Han could tell that the wheels weren't where Lando's heart was at. _Just some tank._ Han wasn't sure if Lando was referring to the truck's gas capacity or comparing her to the clumsy metal lugs they rode through freezing mud, but either way, Han didn't like it. _Tank_. His exact thought had been: _Don't call her that._

Hadn't Han provoked Lando to throw the Chev into the take, that poker night? Han didn't openly dare him, he just implied that Lando, in his peacock peaked collars and glossy boots, lacked the rocks _and_ the bucks to raise the stakes. Irritated, Lando tossed a scrawled slip of paper onto the heap of coins, smokes, sweets and girlie mags: _Keys to the Tank._ And even as he laid down the winning hand, even as the guys around him whooped and thumped his back, Han kept his face still and his eyes on that careless scrap. _Don't worry, baby. You'll get your name._

Lando kept his word on a Saturday morning back in Baltimore, in their apartment. Chewie was out, and Han was blearily drinking coffee in his unbelted pants, the rich redhead he was messing with only just left, when Lando strolled into the kitchen and raised an arm. Han turned and caught ringing metal from the air just before it collided with his hungover skull. He didn't pretend not to know what the keys were for; he showed no gratitude, and he felt none. A deal was a deal, but still Han appreciated that for all his boasting and competitive jostling, Lando Calrissian was a man of his word.

It was October. Han went down the fire escape in his bare feet, shivering and shirtless on the city street, to meet her. He loved her as soon as he saw her: dented door, crooked fender, scraped white paintjob streaked with primer. She was the first thing Han ever really wanted, and he felt the disbelief of a dream to have her. His own wheels. Oh, she needed work all right, but that was part of her appeal—that Han could deliver her from neglect, elevate her to her rightful state. Tough old bird, Han thought as he got into the cab, feeling the scarred leather seat at his bare back. And it was like she settled herself around him, closer—not a mother, and not a lover, but female, Han knew that. He knew that like the sweet feeling in his gut.

"Hey, baby," Han murmured, petting her dash, fitting his fingers to her notched red steering wheel. The wheel was just right. Rocked the pedals with his bare soles; a little mushy. The gearshift wiggled under his palm, and that was sickly, loose, like a rotted tooth— he turned the keys and she started hard, with a cough and wheeze, then labored vibration. From the truck Han felt almost apology, like she would hang her head in shame, if she could. Hang her hood. "Hey-hey. Heeeey," Han soothed. "Nothin' we can't fix."

"You don't look at Miss Red like that." Lando grinned into open the passenger window, pleased with his own benevolence, or perhaps what generosity promised about the richness of his prospects. He glanced at his gold watch. "Welp. Got places to be, Han. Enjoy the tank."

Not even looking up from the dash, Han pointed at Lando. "Her name's Millie."

 _Millie._ She hadn't been a woman Han had known, not a stalwart horse from some cowboy flick. Millie was a bird, a resourceful gull that used to perch near Han in his elm tree. Dull gray-white, beak notched by whatever battles beach scavengers fought. Alert, celery-green eyes. She wasn't mean like the crows or grubby like the pigeons. She had this beat-up grace; he liked the way she hung in salty Baltimore air. When Simmons, the custodian, saw Han tossing the bird crumbs he said, "Oh yeah, Millie. Everything's tried to end her: cats, raccoons, garbage trucks. BB guns. Forget it, my man. She'll be around forever."

Han hadn't known it until he said it, his new truck's name. But it fit, clicked, so he went with it. He liked flight, so he named her Millie, after a bird. That was Han's conscious thought, and it was true. But behind the naming was another impulse at work, not logic but buried protective urge.

 _Don't_ you _die, Millie. Don't you_ die _on me._

XXXXXXXXXX

Death.

Tonight, Han had a feeling that it was comin' for the old man.

Hell, Kenobi wasn't really old—in fact, Han figured him disturbingly young for all that frailty. The first time he ever saw Ben, at Chewie's, Han thought: _Shit. That old fossil got dug up rough._ This was pre-Luke and pre-Leia, even; June, and the artist stopped for coffee on his way somewhere in his rattletrap Ford. Maybe lookin' for Leia, now that Han thought about it. No food, though he looked half-starved.

He'd clearly been broken somewhere. Han had never said this to Luke, or Leia, who loved the man and would be devastated to lose him, when both had lost enough in their short lives. Han never mentioned the haunted quality he saw in Ben Kenobi's eyes where they perceived wisdom. Kenobi's look, it was verging on—what was that word? Leia had got it in the weekly crossword puzzle the Rogues passed around the diner, though they usually skipped _his_ table because: Leia. Until they got desperate, and sent it to their only hope. Leia could do the whole thing in 15 minutes. Sipping her milkshake, curled under his arm, stocking feet tucked up beneath her on the blue booth seat. Leia, rosy and fragrant and warm, so close he could almost hear that brain hum and ah, Han _missed_ her—

The back end of the truck veered sharply wide. _Fuck._ He'd slipped, slipped into softness, into dangerous yearning. _You wanna get your girl back, or not?_ Han eased off the gas, steered out of the slide, then picked up speed when he was straight.

 _Okay, Solo. Don't say her name. Don't even think it until you got her safe._

The word his wife nailed was _nihilistic_. And maybe, from how she explained it, that word wasn't right for Ben Kenobi—maybe it fit, more, that big fucker in black, the Isolder broad's right-hand man. The kid's _father,_ though Han tended to blank that fact out of protective impulse for Luke. Han had only ever seen Anakin Skywalker on the sidewalk, once, but the mere sight triggered a numbness in Han's gut. The man didn't radiate evil; he was absence. A void so choking and bleak Han crossed the street. He had never done that for anyone else.

Han peered through the windshield, suddenly chilled, as though Anakin Skywalker would appear in the center of the road, a shadow silhouette in all the white. An abyss cut in the shape of a man, waiting with malevolent patience. The black hole at the end of every line.

He scoffed to knock back creeping fear. It was weird out here was all, on the remote, snowy highway, like living in a black and white movie. No one around. Music cutting in and out. There was something otherworldly about Roy Orbison's voice, Han mused, trying to distract himself. Like did he use some echo effect? Echo...Luke was into records. He'd ask Luke. _Say, Echo Three. What makes a song sound like outer space?_

Maybe, to sound like that, you just had to be all alone.

 _Someone_ would know what Ben Kenobi's word was _._ Not Han. But whatever the term, there were guys at the home and at Chosin who got Kenobi's look. After too long in real, unrelieved pain some people turned mean, others went nuts or hard. And some got...this fatal generosity. Like the Jesus Christ on the wall of the Corell Home chapel. Five-year-old Han was baffled how the guy seemed alright with his heart on fire, alive with his heart outside his body. His heart held out in the hollow of his hand, bloody and tender as ripe cherries. When guys got that terrible faith around the eyes and mouth, there was nothing for it. They'd made up their mind. And whatever the burial tag said, it was always the ruined heart that did it.

The ghostly voice came clear of the static. _In dreams, you're mine, all of_ —

In real life, you couldn't hold your heart in your hands, all red and soft. You couldn't hand it out. Somehow, some way, Kenobi had tried, and got his emotional receptors blown apart. Simple as that. No, even as a child Han had figured out you kept that damn thing locked up tight, behind the gates of your ribs, and turned it off besides. It was at Chosin that Han had, for the first time, felt grateful for the way he'd come up. He hadn't had to adjust his barriers much; and after all that, he'd figured they could withstand any attack.

Even alone on the road Han smirked at that.

Han had never spoken of the explosion of knowing in his chest when he first saw her, the prisoner of Starwood. A compact detonator, tiny and warm, she coulda fit in his palm. Far too small to dent a hard, guarded man, let alone level him to foundation stone. But if Millie was Han Solo's grenade of want, then _she_ was his pocket hydrogen bomb.

 _I can't help it,_ Orbison lamented without context. _I can't help it._ And as Han drove his hand drifted, equally helpless but with conviction, to bend his sun visor. Revealing the picture there of his very own sweetheart, curved in their blessed armchair. Barely dressed, ah, that slipping strap. Pencil at her lips, those glasses, reading her book. It was dark in the cab, but her fair skin reflected light to Han, dashboard green and winter white. And on the picture's reverse, of course, penned nickname and date, words laden with private weight.

Ink new now, but it would fade.

But to hell with it, to hell with it, no gulf of time or space could change what had come after Han took the picture. He put down the camera and went to her on his knees, slow as his smile. _Go on an' read,_ _Princess,_ he said, aiming first for a game as his right hand wandered beneath her slip, between her thighs. _Don't mind me._ But when he found her bare, Han sighed—not thin issue of air but a heave of his chest, almost bursting, almost some breach. Surprised her, surprised himself. And there was no teasing anymore; Han seized no premise to excuse his need for closeness to her. Just earnest search for the rhythms she shared with only him.

Soon Han found that night's sequence, the glide of fingers and roll of thumb that set her pencil falling, book thudding to hardwood, pretty head twisting on upholstery. Flexing under his gaze, biting her red lips, she was so gorgeous and abandoned that Han lost the air earmarked to keep him alive for the next five hours. The blood, too: he was so hard he thought he—ah, he would die, he could die like this. But Han was revived by his ragged gust of breath when she said _oh god, oh my...god,_ her voice quiet and stunned and wild, and met his eyes. _Don't. Stop._ She clutched his wrist, tightening against tension. Han's free arm curved under her hips and lifted her close, pressed his face to the lace over her breasts. Drinking in her rosy skin and vanilla silk slip. Moving his thumb in a satellite's slow smooth arc. _Han._ Firmly he curled his fingers upward. _Right here, Sweetheart._ Even Han didn't know if he spoke in discovery or in reassurance but she bowed, hard, and broke. He felt her lock around his touch, felt her fist close in his hair. Felt her rise under his chest. Felt her moan shake the breastbone beneath his open mouth, felt his own animal sound of exultation. But it was her heartbeat Han sensed most, opening from glimmer to thrumming roar. A surge so irresistible and hot it pulled Han's pulse along with it, until he knew no distinction.

Even out here, even in the chill, in Lando's beater that nothing could kill Han felt it, her scorching light, the propulsive charge sparked in engines of metal or flesh. But it wasn't fusion or good fortune Han was dreaming of, not now. Not out here alone on this icy planet with Millie, Roy Orbison bemoaning the state of waking. It wasn't sex, it wasn't luck. What Han thought about was how, in Korea, he'd looked over soldiers' pictures with fraternal correctness, but without respect. Fuck, he'd walked around so _arrogant:_ mocking superstitious patterns, spooked into silence by the sacred. _Cocky wee bastard,_ Chewie had once called Han then, and Han had retorted: " _Who's_ wee? Maybe to you, Pal." But his friend was right. Han Solo was a soldier over six feet tall and he'd been a baby, holding himself perfectly quiet and still in his sturdy, dented chassis.

Now Han felt a penitent before all those men, the ones with the guts to look upon the proof of love. Some of them gone. He'd had no inkling of what feeling a picture, a name, unlocked. The damned _heat,_ words so urgent they converted at once to vows. Defiant merger into one annihilating rush. But now Han knew that this was how you carried the glory and terror of life's treasures. And all of this a ritual against loss, a resistance to whatever it was all hearts—open or shielded, shattered or strong—must pass into, then pass beyond.

Ah, his girl. The girl in _his_ picture, bombshell, his sweet pale ghost, the girl Han had known the second he saw her. Knew her so well he had to miss her now, had to say her name aloud, feel her in his mouth: life left no time for anything else. Damn the risk, Han would let missing her be a kind of compass.

 _Leia Organa._ Han even loved her name—Leia Organa, the most beautiful name, the most beautiful girl in the world. The girl for him. Han stroked a fingertip over Leia's image: the secret self of his missing wife, symbolized in her soulful, intelligent eyes. Pencil, book, glasses, slip, bare feet. Each captured feature corresponding in Han, as long as he'd live, with her last trusting arch, the way his own name came apart in her throat. He'd remember himself on his knees, heart in his hands, an offering. How Leia took his naked heart from him, and set it beating.


	54. Chapter 54

Spring 1933. Padmé telephoned Ben out of the blue to tell him Breha had stopped into Organa Hill Myerson to see her. Ben was shocked, thrilled—he didn't notice the strange tightness in Padmé's voice, he was so lost in relief, happiness, the uplift of excitement. He babbled more words in that moment than ever before in his life: Was Breha all right? Where had she been? When could he see her...wait, where was she now? He'd come at once, he—

"Ben..." In her rare, careful use of his real name, Padmé stopped him dead. And in her pause Ben understood, in a spasm of agonized clarity, that if Breha was no longer lost, she wished to remain lost to _him_.

For long minutes he was frozen in quiet, the words _no love_ _why how but please_ rattling inside his skull, never finding their way into his mouth. On her end of the line Padmé tended a soft hush, both empathetic and terminal. Ben's plea, when it came, was absurd—not at all what he'd meant to say, but laden with all his hope and feeling.

"Is she painting?"

"No, Kenny. She doesn't paint anymore."

Ben closed his eyes. Gazed into his most precious memory of Breha: rising from Alder Lake, where they'd been washing away their paint. The day he'd said she loved her, and she said she loved him back. The way she looked just after she'd kissed him, in the water, and then opened into shy, brave, joyful laughter.

Padmé broke into Ben's refuge. "I thought you should know she's doing well," she said gently, and the line went dead.

He thought of contacting Breha himself. He didn't know if she was in New York or New Hope, but he could call and write the Naberrie house, or—what? Stake Padmé out until the sisters eventually met? But that...was uncomfortably close to Anakin's level of possessiveness. And always Ben was stopped in such desperate plans by what Padmé had said: Breha was doing well. What right had Ben to disrupt that? He'd never forgotten the anguish of her last letters; it had tormented him for two years, the worry that kind, deeply good Breha was locked, somewhere, into such pain and anxiety. It was a mercy to know, at last, that that wasn't so, no matter the cost to himself. No, Ben would not throw his love like some rock into whatever peace she'd found. No matter how he missed her, wanted her. No.

Still Ben hoped, believed Breha would write, show up at his door; he'd kept the same Village apartment where she'd once stayed not merely for sentiment, but also because he wanted her to know where to find him. Breha, his Breha, all they'd shared! But Ben had never heard from her and didn't hear from Padmé either.

Ben was too devastated to feel hurt.

He threw himself into the work he had once neglected. Jinn was young for a professor, took Ben out drinking. He'd had his heart broken, too, as a younger man in Paris; it had, he said, been the making of him as an artist. He advised Ben to put it all on canvas and the work was good, though he knew in his heart that he was holding something back, a force he could no longer access without Breha. He'd never quite been able to return to Breha's exuberant color.

At the final student show Ben sold three works, more money than he'd ever had, and was hired as Jinn's assistant professor. Ben's only competition for the job would have been Anakin Skywalker, but he'd been recently expelled. He'd had a public screaming argument with his pompous advisor about the direction of his work. A further rumor said that Anakin vandalized the sculptures of several talented juniors, and though Ben was no longer his friend, he didn't believe Anakin capable of _that_.

Ben naturally thought of Anakin Skywalker less and less, though he had to train himself to forget the Naberrie girls. Mostly, by day, he kept them out. But Ben dreamed in color, still. Dreamed of Breha, the rich red-brown of her hair and eyes; rising, white and pink and laughing, from blue water. His own hair a sheaf of bronze, eyes blue-green, ruddy skin. The way their colors looked together, on the embroidered pillows of their Mantell hideaway. The unique spectrum of Breha's canvases. He dreamed she appeared at his door, both smiling and distraught; he said nothing, just drew her into his embrace. He dreamed of Breha at her easel, her downy, magical nakedness.

The dream of Breha in the lake was the most dear and wounding to Ben, the one he most dreaded waking from. But he most frequently dreamed of that night in the theater. If he hadn't left her so upset, or if he'd insisted she come with him, or—oh, that night would never leave him alone. He dreamed it again and again: champagne, Padmé's playful wit, Breha's lovely, grieving face. The exactness of the details seemed to promise, in Ben Kenobi's subconscious, that what had been lost could be somehow regained. But by day, Ben supposed that through either prism—Breha's poignant sense of joy or Padmé's charming cynicism—the affair had been doomed. Life was not a moving picture, not a biography of romantic painters. He was, and would be forever, the son of Jim Kenobi the penniless trapper. What had Ben been thinking, a Naberrie girl and a fellow like him?

Ben found his first white whisker in his early twenties. Thought yet again of that film, that damned film that he, not a word-thinker, could never recall the name of. And Ben wished that instead of the title, he could forget all that impossible human grace, the rhythm that seemed to reveal some universal heart. Forget the way music burst into color, just to bleed back to blacks and grays. He understood, now, why Breha sometimes shrank from beauty. Both he and she were attuned to it, but only Breha had known that it was always fading.

XXXXXXXXXX

July 16, 1936. Ben looked up to see her in the doorway of his tiny, cluttered office on campus. Just like in dreams. But even as his heart stalled at the identical face, Ben knew this wasn't the girl he loved. The twins had carried themselves distinctly; Breha with ethereal, dreamy grace, letting life wash over her senses. Her sister, like a sophisticated princess. The wit and sense of her own rightness.

The woman in the doorway carried herself like neither Naberrie twin, though she was unmistakably one of them: the wide, intelligent brown eyes, fair skin, luxuriant hair, jaunty, distinct sartorial flair. But the smile was faint, and when one looked closer the clothes were outdated, if scrupulously clean and pressed. Ben didn't smile back, and Padmé Skywalker swallowed hard when he rose behind his desk and crossed to her, as though she believed he'd close the door in her face. When Ben hugged her she gave the smallest sound of relief.

For years Ben had avoided Midtown, knowing Padmé worked there; he kept to the Village, the familiar circuit of work, pub, home. So he wasn't prepared for how changed Padmé was in the flesh, in his office, declining his offer of a seat. Her wonderful eyes were hollowed, shadowed, her skin tinged sallow. She couldn't stay long, Padmé said, and her voice was firm and rich as ever, but the angle of her chin held mingled desperation and pride. She handed over the rolled parchment she carried, long and wide enough to obscure her slight frame. In fact, Padmé had grown so thin in face and limbs that Ben was startled to see the gentle swell of her belly underneath her discreetly mended middy dress.

Ben unrolled the papers. Anakin Skywalker's latest works boiled with untethered power. Staggering talent, but also fear, rage, confusion, pressure. Ben was both compelled and taken aback—the dark strength was unpleasant and electrifying at once. But as Jinn often said, complacency was the enemy of art.

"He." Padmé adopted her familiar pause, an inward scan of what Breha had fondly called _P's word-store._ It was a formidable stock, so Ben was surprised when the syllables Padmé chose were plain as salt—though as clean, too. "Ani needs this."

She didn't ask Ben to sell the work, and Ben would never have offended her by offering. He knew Padmé's visit wasn't about money, frayed cuffs or not. Or, at least, it wasn't about money to _her_. But what had happened, Ben wondered, to the banished class genius in his attic flat, no one to beat, no one to measure his genius against? Anakin Skywalker in exile, all day, while his wife worked to support him. His once-rich bride. What did a man with such crippling pride begin to tell himself about success, about masculinity, about ability to face the world? What inner voice rose to replace the outside approval he'd always demanded?

But for Padmé this visit was about rerouting a focus grown too intense on one spot: her. Hot, hotter. It was about grounding that blue lightning that had once thrilled her. Danger _was_ thrilling, Ben supposed, right up until there was a baby coming. Padmé brushed absently at a lock of her hair. Ben ached to see her fingernails bitten to their pink quick.

"Of course, P," Ben said, softly. "Of course I'll talk to them."

Padmé smiled her real smile, radiant and open. In gratitude, yes, but mostly to find that despite the chasm of pain and change and time, she was still herself, and Ben was still Ben. Ben was moved by it too, the comfort of unspoken history. So when he touched Padmé's elbow as she turned to go, he was unprepared for her wariness. Unprepared for Padmé to misunderstand _him,_ what he wanted to say. And she struggled to provide what she believed were the terms of repayment for his favor: news of Breha.

"Ben, she's—she's m—"

Ben brought up his palms to ward off her words, almost covered his ears in an unmanly way he beat himself up for later. But Ben _couldn't_ hear her name, couldn't look on the crushing familiarity of Padmé's face and have his own missed, missing girl invoked. _She's doing well,_ Ben reminded himself, to block the selfish rush of yearning. _I'm_ _doing well. She's doing well. Well, well, well, well..._

"No, I." Almost frantically, Ben indicated Padmé's abdomen. "Congratulations," he stammered, and squeezed her hand, the little strong hand of his first friend.

And Padmé gave him a look he never forgot, so densely woven that Ben spent the rest of his life picking the strands apart. Love for her child, that was most of it: love, primal love, fiercely protective, even stronger than the passion she felt for Anakin Skywalker. And there was happiness there too, deep anticipation. But there was also...surely it couldn't be _apology?_ Yet that _was_ it: Padmé searched Ben's eyes with actual guilt. Hastily Ben opened his mouth to reassure her that whatever had come between him and Anakin, Ben would always wish only good things for her—and for Anakin as well, as Padmé's husband, her baby's father.

But before Ben could say any of that, Padmé caught herself, rearranging her expression into the flawless social correctness she often rejected but still had learned almost before she could speak. Ben knew it was unconscious refuge from vulnerability, but it hurt like hell to see: in that moment of protective distance, she truly could have been Breha.

XXXXXXXXX

Jinn had been up for it, getting Anakin reinstated as a student. Ben had known he would; the big, long-haired Irishman was a renegade, irreverent and daring, carrying on affairs with both women and men (! ! Ben had first thought to _that,_ but soon got over it; after the way things ended for him and Breha, Ben didn't believe love needed policing). _Trust your feelings_ was Jinn's motto, and he shared Ben's feeling that Anakin was a major talent.

But the faculty panel were appalled when Ben and Jinn presented them with Anakin's jagged, deliberately primitive work, along with their proposal that Anakin be re-admitted with scholarship intact. The work was marked by violence, the council gasped with operatic drama that made Jinn pretend to gnaw open his wrists. _Darkness! Danger!_ wailed the board. Ben agreed, but asked: was all art meant to be pointillism picnics in the park? Surely there was a place for all expression here, even the uncomfortable? Jinn had clapped him so hard on the shoulder that Ben had slightly staggered in front of the long, elevated table at which the council rather pretentiously sat. He shot Jinn a dark look, adjusting his bow-tie. Jinn chuckled. He hadn't even washed the paint from his burly forearms for the hearing.

The panel reminded the two men of Anakin's cockiness, difficulty. Artists were wilful, Ben defended. But in the end, he accepted the panel's hard, flat refusal. Anakin was barred forever. If Ben was honest, the final judgement hadn't bothered him as it had bothered Jinn, swearing in Gaelic into his beer. In fact, Ben wished the failure had bothered him _more_. Was Ben...jealous? After all, Anakin was not afraid of color. Anakin still had _his_ Naberrie girl, had married her, even. Anakin was going to be a father. As he got farther in time from Jim Kenobi, Ben felt this particular drive rather keenly. He'd have liked to have a child, a rosy little poppet to swing onto his shoulders, play with in Central Park. Ben could marry easily enough; there were certainly girls interested in a young bachelor professor. But that was the rub, wasn't it? He didn't want just any wife, any child. He wanted to marry Breha Naberrie. He wanted to be the father of _her_ son, _her_ daughter.

Ben sipped his pint of Guinness. Anakin was a mess, had fought with all their professors, had maybe smashed a bunch of sculptures besides. He'd brought it all on himself.

Jinn wrote a letter of appeal. Ben thought of doing the same, but never did, no matter the stark plea he'd seen in Padmé's eyes that day in his office—Padmé Naberrie, the girl who had once ordered Erin Palpatine to leave Ben Kenobi alone. Padmé Naberrie, who had failed to return Breha to him.

XXXXXXXXXX

December 1, 1936. Ben was surprised to be invited to Empire Industries' Christmas party. This had never happened before—but there it was in his New York mailbox when he came home from work, an elegant Art Deco invitation in black and silver. And inside, a brisk note from Erin Isolder: _Ben. You won't want to miss_ _this_ _! E._

Hope and apprehension leapt in him. It had been three years since Ben had seen Breha. He hadn't been back to Alder Glen; he'd inherited a large parcel of land, but had no plans to return. With his parents both dead, why bother? He missed the woods, the beach, but what if he was at the lake some summer day and Breha arrived? Ben truly believed that it might kill him, to walk down the path and see her dive from the dock, lithe and graceful in her red bathing suit.

Wouldn't it kill him to see Breha at a Christmas party?

Ben rubbed his forehead, sinking into his cracked leather couch. Erin and Breha _had_ been friends. What if this was Breha's cautious way of reaching out to him? He knew her parents had died, too. Ben didn't wish to be crass, but...what if there were no obstacles, anymore, to Breha marrying the man she pleased? He got up to make a drink, to pace his loft, to look out over the busy winter street.

He knew what Erin was like. A thief and liar, not to be trusted. Unless he'd only known who Erin _was_. Maybe she'd changed. Again Ben opened the invitation, mining it for information. Yes, she still wrote in those bubbly letters that struck him as perversely girlish in a grown woman; yes, the sharp, geometric stationery felt almost sinister for a festive occasion. But perhaps these weren't warning signs so much as the compulsive aesthetic leanings of a lonely man, bereft of everything but his artistic taste. Ben sighed, bitterly enough that it turned into a hiss.

He stayed up all that night, drink after drink, turning the invitation over in his hands. The heavy paper was cut so strangely, a circle flanked with hard-cornered rectangles. Art Deco wasn't a style Ben liked. He found it cold, sterile, even hostile. But every time he tried to put the card away—on the mantel, on top of the icebox—he felt it was tracking him around his apartment, strafing him with hot, lethal bolts: grief, adoration, shock. Hunger. Memory. Hope.

Ben kept thinking of Breha's shyness, her fragility. She _would_ be afraid to approach him first—had been even at their first childhood meeting. And Padmé wouldn't likely do it for her, not this time, not after Ben had failed to help her with Anakin. It was this notion that made up Ben's mind: Breha yearning for what they'd had as much as he did. Ben could endure his own loneliness, but not the thought of Breha Naberrie lonely for him. He'd left her to that more than once. Not again.

XXXXXXXXXX

December 12, 1936. Ben drove up the winding path to the Mantell Country Club in his rented car, wearing his new clothes. He had spent more money on the bespoke suit than he'd ever spent at once on anything other than art supplies. There was no denial that he wanted to impress Breha. Let her know he was respectable. Dependable. Well-employed. Throw his new felt hat into the ring of contenders for her hand.

Inside the club was a lavish party Ben could never fully picture, later—a blur of brittle glitter, carved ice, golden bubbles, dangling cut crystal. Almost violent sparkle. A jazz band played Christmas standards. His heart fluttered when he saw the familiar small shape from behind—the delicate frame, the rich arrangement of chestnut hair, there was no mistaking a Naberrie girl. Ben took several quick steps toward her before she turned, slightly, and Ben saw the gleaming gold dress was draped over a belly full and round as a harvest moon.

Padmé did not see Ben, though he was close enough to hear her speak. She was embroiled in a tense conversation with a man in an expensive dark suit and long black cashmere topcoat. A tall man, dark blond, dressed identically to other men at work at this party—not the bartenders or waiters or musicians, but the steel-eyed types stationed at regular intervals along the walls, taking invitations at the doorway. Ben took them to be discreet enforcers. But _this_ bouncer, though large, was weaving on his feet—drunk, too drunk to eject anyone.

"You promised that when—" Padmé said, and Ben knew her enough to hear anger, betrayal, and pain in her tone. But he'd never before heard her exhaustion, hadn't known it was possible. She held a hand to the side of her swollen abdomen, seemed to abandon her search for articulation. "...you promised."

"Baby's not born yet," Anakin said, and in his voice Ben heard a wheedling playfulness, authentic guilt, and resentment for being made to feel guilt.

Padmé tightened her lips.

"Paddy. Paddy. I only wanted to make us a little money." Anakin's voice was fond and exasperated, cajoling and angry, all at once. "You can't be working, baby, not anymore." He touched his wife's belly. "I thought you'd be _happ_ —"

"Nothing from that succubus will ever make me happy," Padmé snapped.

Withdrawing his hand, Anakin shifted on his feet. "Yeah. Well, it's just a couple odd jobs." He knocked back the rest of his drink. "You rich girls. You just don't get—hell, you don't want me to work for her? You wanna go back to New York so bad? Fine. Talk to your sister."

Ben, who had been moving away as discreetly as he could from this private conversation, froze.

"Stop. Just stop. She didn't ask them to leave her the—" Padmé's face contorted. "Breha earned every damned penny."

Anakin shrugged, sucking vodka from the inside of his cheek, showily callous. "She didn't offer any of it to you."

"You don't know what she offered," Padmé said, coldly.

He glowered. "You saw her? Where?"

"At work, not that it's any of your business. She's my twin sister. My child will know her like a second mother." And Padmé jerked free of her husband's grasping arm, moving from him with as much severity as her cumbersome form allowed.

XXXXXXXXXX

At the mahogany bar Ben nursed a whiskey, wide blue eyes roving over the crowd. Breha, Breha. When the hand closed on his elbow Ben turned with a start, though he knew this wasn't her, that it couldn't be _her,_ the grip was so sharp and grasping and somehow...starved, that to his mind came the image of a talon.

Ben followed Erin Isolder outside, along brick paths wound between walls of snow, lit by tall, quietly howling gas lanterns. Without his coat and hat, Ben shivered—Erin wore even less, a black satin bias-cut dress that fastened at shoulders and waist with glittering rhinestone clasps. Her form was almost punishingly spare, though Ben knew she'd only recently had a baby—he'd seen the blond boy tonight, only a few months old, trussed up in a tiny tuxedo, fussing with exhaustion in his nanny's grasp.

Erin kept a few paces ahead, giving occasional looks over her shoulder to see if Ben was following, and just as he began to feel a nagging fear—silly, absurd, Erin was a slight woman, there was no reason to be frightened of—she stopped at a fountain. Hideous thing, Ben thought, stone Roman god in a chariot, blank-eyed and bearded. Driving equally blind horses, their nostrils flaring. The fountain was empty, of course, in December but still Erin gazed dreamily into it as though it held water, and could reveal her face to her. She wore an expression of wonder that seemed lifted from Ginger Rogers.

How was Erin not shivering?

She pulled a letter from her clutch. She set it into his hands, held on, and waited. Ben stared at her. She stared back, her pale eyes cold and level as a rapier. He realized Erin was not going to leave first and he almost jerked the envelope loose—he'd recognized Breha's handwriting at once.

Erin tugged it back.

"Now now," Erin scolded, coyly. "Greedy Ben Kenobi. You'll see that it's addressed to _me._ So. You'll have to read it in my presence."

Ben clenched his teeth against impatience. Erin had always been imperious. Histrionic. Unable to relinquish the spotlight to anyone else. He remembered her, as a little girl, in furious tears when Breha's sketch of Main Street was framed in the school vestibule. He didn't doubt that it felt real to Erin then, that her friend's accomplishment had registered as the anguish of being overlooked. But Erin was an adult now, damn it. A wife and mother, a major player in the powerful company founded by her father. The woman was out of excuses for her behavior—she was what she appeared to be, a wretched child, pampered into malice. No more stages to glide across under her rhinestone crown, knowing her role from the title on her sash. Bored into toying with Ben's life, just as she had when they were younger.

Faced with the need to obey Erin now, Ben burned for the first time with class resentment—sure his family was broke, but he'd never before felt... _poor_. Not when he'd had work, and talent, and most of all, Breha.

 _Mind your betters._ His mother had whispered this, when Ben was a child playing with the twins, but he'd had no idea what it meant. He hadn't had to: Padmé was too wry and critical a thinker to believe wealth made anyone objectively superior. And Breha was the kindest person in the world. She would sooner do injury to herself than wound anyone's sense of worth—and further to that, beauty was universally owned, like the earth, and Breha revelled in and revered beauty above all else. But Ben understood it now, his mother's warning—for it _was_ a warning, or a protective charm against drawing the eye of power. As though happiness was hubris when felt by the poor.

Ben hesitated. Was it fair to Breha, for him to read her letter? But Ben was committed, now, like it or not: plane ticket bought, back in New Hope, in this posh suit. And anything was justified if it restored Breha to his life. For all he knew, Breha had asked for this. What choice did Ben have, watching Erin Isolder playfully slot that letter between her jewelled fingers? He had to know. And so, in a low, controlled voice, Ben agreed to read in front of her. With a kittenish smile Erin released the envelope, and slipped a cigarette into her enamelled holder.

It was good cardpaper, thick and creamy. Ben ran a finger over the deep blue ink, Breha's line as fine and clean as ever. It was true, the envelope was addressed to Erin Isolder; Ben flipped it swiftly over, saw with a shock that it was postmarked from an apartment on the Upper West Side. Breha lived in New York? Ben knew the building, he'd been there once to deliver a painting Jinn had sold to a rich collector. Fancy place, about as far from romantic squalor as one could get.

The letter was dated on Ben's birthday of last year: June 2, 1935. Ben felt quick hope to see this date, hope rising to bite at the guilt he felt for violating Breha's confidence, hope biting at the dread that rose as he read. Perhaps only Ben, besides Padmé, could have perceived how not-Breha the stilted tone of this letter was. It had her politeness, but none of her empathetic grace; like the programmed voice of someone being held for ransom in a gangster film. _Send only unmarked bills._ Yes, that was it—the letter was unmarked by Breha's spirit. The only thing that was recognizable was the exquisite, lively stroke of her penmanship. She may have given up painting, but Breha's sense of beauty persisted, Ben thought, with stinging vindication.

After her salutation, Breha began by thanking Erin, with strained mannerliness, for her _assistance_ that spring of 1933. Breha's parents had been right, and she was sorry now for the ugly things she'd called them—and Erin—when she'd first come back from Indianapolis. She hadn't been at all herself. Erin had done the proper thing in going to the Naberries with Breha's secret. Breha did not hold her parents, nor Erin, responsible for all that had happened after. The Theed School Dr. Dodonna recommended had had an excellent reputation. She knew, now, that everyone had acted in her best interests, and with appreciated discretion.

Ben blinked. Breha had been to a mental hospital? So had two of his colleagues, artists he admired. Neither he nor Padmé had never thought to try...oh, but the Naberries wouldn't have sent Breha to a public facility for help; they'd choose a discreet place, billed as some school so as not to taint the pool of prospective suitors. Ben would never have guessed that such institutions existed except that Padmé used to speak darkly about places where rich people could send their wayward daughters, have them reset to obedience. Said that with her smart mouth, she'd end up in one. Until today, Ben thought Padmé had been joking.

Breha must have gone to Erin with her anxiety and depression, turned to Erin in desperation. Not him. Not _him?_ Ben closed his eyes, saw that goddamned film again, in sick slow motion. If he had—had only—

His eyes opened, and focused on one written word.

 _Ben._

It was hard, so hard, for him to see his name again, traced in Breha's achingly familiar script, but with none of the whimsy and joy and shy allusion that used to fill her letters to him. And this sentence was where he found the real Breha, a plea inked with heartfelt pressure into the paper. _Please, Ben must not know._ Ben felt a hot prickling behind his eyes and nose. _Oh, B. As if I could ever think less of—_

But another line, then, at the end of the page. It was as though Breha had broken genteel code in invoking Ben's name and could not return to it. Under that last line, Breha did not sign her name.

This last line was written with even more emotional force than _Ben_ , and from it radiated still more pain—pain and rage, rage and heat. Like Breha had passed through some terrible seal separating herself from molten grief. Like the earth's crust, only ever marginally between human life and immolation. The upper-crust, Jim Kenobi had called the rich people he guided through the forest, ferried across the lake. Ben's tough, resourceful Highlands father, who had once tacked up Breha's pencil drawing of a fox.

The last line read: _I called him James._


	55. Chapter 55

"I have. We—Breha and I. A son?"

Perhaps something in Ben's gutted pauses made Erin Isolder realize she'd gone too far. She hesitated, and when she spoke her voice was quiet—not gentle, Erin couldn't manage that, but slow and hushed. Maybe she truly felt sorry for Ben, standing there, face white and still and flat as paper. Or maybe it was a pantomime of reverence.

"No, he—oh, Ben. Oh, no. He didn't—"

She mistook Ben's stricken silence for acceptance, and so Erin's voice firmed again into an almost blasé exposition. The doctor at Theed, Dodonna's med school friend, had bungled the breech birth; the baby— _James, James,_ Ben thought, _say his name, you fucking bitch_ —lost, and Breha almost lost too. It would likely be hard for poor Breha to have any more, Erin added with a sickly pout. She clicked her tongue, smoothing the rippled satin just above where she had so recently carried her own son; she flicked her eyes back up at Ben, sadness exaggerated as a silent film. Ben understood, then, through the dull roar of blood in his head, that Erin was some...some frustrated _actress_. This wasn't simple sadism—this was theater to Erin Isolder, she was watching herself as a player in a melodrama called _Ben Finds Out._ Watching herself manufacture compassion; watching Ben stand mute in his expensive suit, shivering stopped, artist's beard carefully shaven off for the occasion.

Sliver of tongue visible between her wine-dark lips, her face went from expectant to impatient—Erin had the nerve to look neglected, like he'd forgotten his dialogue.

Ben thought about killing her, then.

As Erin found his eye as though hitting some mark, Ben quite calmly opened his hands, flexing his gifted fingers. Perhaps he would strangle her. Wanted to hold her head under, drown her in the fountain's missing water. Find her social rule book and feed it to her. Page by page crammed down Erin Isolder's throat until she panicked, until she choked on correctness, on etiquette. Chapter after chapter: dress codes and summer homes, intercoms and _silverware_ and what to do when Ken Kenobi the trapper's boy gets a Naberrie girl in trouble.

Why, Erin, you talk to her, of course. You tell her, don't you, that he'll never marry her, that he's an artist. A baby will ruin his career. And the poor fool's already done some of your convincing for you: _an artist leads an artist's life._ It would be so easy to nudge unselfish Breha that way. And if Breha wouldn't be nudged enough—well, you go to her parents. You tell the Naberries that _you're awfully sorry to tell them this, but. Her condition. Breha is my best friend. I'm just...scared for her. For what will happen when people find out._

Breha thinking she was protecting him, his dreams, her silence releasing him into freedom. Not wanting to shame her family. And Erin simpering under her rhinestone crown: _Oooh. Where's that framed drawing of Main Street now?_

Ben looked at the stars to get away from Erin's hunger. To escape the blank paste gaze of this fucking...statue, this minor god, whatever pitiless god ignored Ben's beloved girl and his dying child. _Oh, B. If you'd have come to_ _ **me,**_ _we would have—_ Ben looked at the stars. He was born under the sign of Gemini; Breha was a twin. Her wonderful, gentle, expressive face, her solemn expression as she studied a subject, before she committed her first line to canvas. Fingers roughened like his from charcoal, brushes, inks and solvents. Paint-chip confetti on the floor around their bodies when they made love in New York City. Romantic squalor, love and art, skin lit by candles in champagne bottles. Color. And out of that, art; out of that a child. A child, a boy whose face Ben would never know, never capture in stages with strokes of ink, never touch and kiss and chart for echoes of ancestry.

And Ben had thought he had a broken heart, before. Ben thought _he_ had the broken heart. Broken pencils, broken heart, wet mittens stuffed into his satchel and hidden from his sick mother. Stolen Breha, stolen James. So this was hatred. The hot carbonation in Ben's temples felt—not good, but so much _better_.

He flexed his hands. Took a step.

"Oh, Ben. You've been so brave—" Erin watched him, avidly, as though giving him a chance to correct his stoicism. "There's just one more thi—"

A flash of gold appeared, too fast for the rounded shape, a rare coin launched at the fountain.

"What have you done."

It was more condemnation than question. Because, Ben thought distantly, Padmé knew. Of course she did, she had since her sister's visit, since the phone call that cut him loose. Definitely at that last visit, in his office: that complicated look. He did not blame Padmé. She knew her sister, she probably felt Breha's broken heart on sight. And Ben was glad that, at least, Breha had had a trusted outlet, someone to help siphon the grief. Breha's twin, her best and dearest friend, almost another self, returned to her. It would not staunch the loss of her— _their_ son. But perhaps reconciliation had saved Breha's life.

Even taller, Erin Isolder visibly shrank at the approach of this tiny, clumsily pregnant woman. In Padmé's presence Erin's hard luster faded, her power downgraded to fakery. Regal Padmé cast Erin into not even darkness but insignificance. Erin did not answer Padmé; she could only open and close her burgundy mouth, flustered—not in shame at what she'd done, but because all rights of speech belonged to Padmé, and Padmé chose none.

Padmé opened her arms to Ben and she held him for a long time. She cried; Ben did not. He wished he could, but he didn't, and not because he was the gruff, capable man his father had been. Jim. James. Father, fathers. Between them, Padmé's child turned, lazily spun, little moon. Ben hid his face in Padmé's sheltering hair, feeling her stroke his shoulders like she used to pet her sister's head when Breha wept. _Breha._ It was so like holding Breha and not at all.

Even Erin Isolder did not intrude on their exchange. She didn't leave either—maybe she didn't dare move, for fear of drawing Padmé's wrathful light. But darkness pulled at the corner of Ben's vision, making him look up, bleary with pain. The shadow was Anakin Skywalker, cutting with eerie speed through the deep snow towards them. He seemed to float, there, above the white in his black flapping coat—otherworldly, awful. Ben took in the hair, overgrown, curly; Anakin hadlost weight, his always angular face gone gaunt.

In an instant Ben saw that this consoling embrace registered in Anakin as another thought entirely: that Ben was trying to steal from him, as Anakin had surely been stolen from all his life. Fear was a primitive response, stored in his body next to claim, to lust. _He_ _ **is**_ _a beast,_ Ben thought. Locked out of his talent, left stalking the borders of his own love, hungry for trespassers that never arrived. Craving threat so he could justify the monstrous changes in himself. Even love was a finite substance, to Anakin, like everything else: money, praise: carved and devoured, and tough luck to you if you'd missed out.

Ben turned to face Anakin, and he was through with fraternity, he was through explaining his feelings as brotherly, he was through justifying the fact that he had happened to, by chronological accident, meet Padmé Naberrie first.

"You were always jealous," Anakin spat, as he got close.

Ben gave a choked bark of laughter. _Anakin_ saying _Ben_ was jealous? Anakin, whose eyes were so caustic with possession that they seemed almost a new color, an uncanny reddish amber. Or did Anakin mean he was the better artist? Anakin bloody well _was,_ as Jinn would have thundered. It hadn't mattered to Ben then, and it sure as hell didn't matter now, now that he'd discovered—now that he'd become a bereaved father in under an hour, felt like some widower. _Art? Have it. Take it._ Ben raised a hand to say as much—

—and his left eye exploded with all the color he'd so missed. Ben's brain offered up the recollection then, mild and useless, of what that damned musical was called. _Chasing Rainbows_.

 _What a thing to think of,_ Ben muttered to himself, _what a thing..._

Padmé didn't scream, but she made a sound that pierced the night. Violence seemed to have shifted the balance of power, seemed to embolden Erin Isolder to speak. "My, my," Erin sounded appreciative, coolly amused as an empress.

Hand pressed to his face, Ben stumbled off the brick path and into the snow, soaking the calves of his expensive trousers. What did it matter? What did _any_ of it...he had to get away from here, that was it. Back into the car, back to the airport, back to New York and he'd find—

Anakin howled after him, then, that Ben might have the job, the money, have all their teachers' support. But he was no man. No husband. No father.

Ben turned back. Jerky and graceless with adrenaline, his eye already swelling, he moved through the hard snow like a marionette. He'd never hit anyone before and was it even fair to hit a man who was this drunk well damn it damn it all Ben did not _care_. He hit Anakin three times, two clumsy clouts to temple and ear but the third came inspired, a whistling cross that dropped Anakin to all fours in the snow. He thought he heard Erin Isolder give a hungry trill, some carnivorous hatchling.

Steaming blood from Anakin's broken nose turned the snow around him to gory lava. But it wasn't enough redness for Ben, not enough heat, not even with this Technicolor scarlet filter over Ben's sight. Ben knelt, he was going to rip Anakin apart, leave him for dead, there was so much hateful power surging in him now that he knew—

He was distracted by the silvery jingling. Padmé snatched the car keys from the bricks, where they had fallen from Anakin's pocket. She nodded to herself, dashing hard at her eyes with her small fist, and instead of taking the path back to the club, she waded through the snow with heartbreaking determination. Bleeding, reeling, Anakin tried to rise and slipped in his slick-soled shoes; got to his feet; ignoring Erin's demand that he return at once, he ran after his wife, trailing blood.

Ben stood, breathing through his clenched teeth, and turned to look at Erin. Her chest rose and fell, and he had the horrifying sense that although he posed her the physical threat, she was stealing his breath, taking his life force. Growing stronger, realer, with his rage and her attention. Erin wanted Ben. Not sexually, though somehow Ben wouldn't put that past her script for this hellish moment, past her perverse sense of show. But carnally, yes: Erin craved hands at her neck, a tightening grip, drama unto even death. Ultimate proof of her own power, to convert gentle Ben Kenobi to murderer. And Ben wanted to spit, he wanted to hit her, he wanted to split her skull open on the hull of a pretentious concrete chariot. He did not. Ben spared not one more look, in his life, for Erin Isolder. He turned his face, his pain, from her forever.

Left all alone, her stage reduced to flat brick, Erin squalled after Ben. But Ben ran, too, his good new shoes punching through the thick, sharp rime of snow. Ben broke through crust, and there was no molten heat below. There was nothing below but cold emptiness.

XXXXXXXXXX

Ben did not speak of the accident. He had come upon it and would not say it, not even now to Luke and Leia, would never say what he'd seen. Would not ever remember, would not allow himself to access the sight with his acutely gifted visual memory. All was a great icy wall of shock. And that was right. That was mercy, and he did not fight it.

What Ben knew next was the hospital in Mantell. The queasy green of the waiting room. There was no one there—no Naberries, Skywalkers, Kenobis, Palpatines or Isolders—though that would change, Ben knew, that would change soon enough. No, there was only Ben, holding a towel of snow pressed to his eye, no idea how he'd arrived or who had tended to him. No idea what to do. And only him there.

There had been police, ambulance, Ben was sure. But now they were gone, dissolved into their jobs, and it was only him, alone, in this waiting room. It seemed some painful photonegative of where Ben should have been, with Breha. If things had—if things had gone differently. With James. If he had known.

Breha, yes. Ben had to call Breha. He had to get word to Breha. He knew her address—the ninth floor of Delphine Place. But the telephone, what was her telephone number, where was a telephone...

Dr. Jan Dodonna came into the room.

XXXXXXXXXX

Padmé was dying. Padmé was dying, there was nothing to be done. She hadn't wakened. There was nothing to be done, Jan Dodonna kept saying, almost pleading with Ben—the doctor was sweating, even craven. Not at all the arrogant, supercilious, vaguely bored man Ben remembered from his mother's final illness.

When he said Padmé had been delivered of a son, Dodonna visibly trembled. And Ben saw: because of what had happened to Breha, and James, Dodonna was afraid. In the social arena, the Kenobi kid was no one to fear, or even notice. But here? No Naberries or Isolders or social ladders to keep the doctor safe? Here Dodonna was, face to face with the man whose life he had helped ruin. And he could see, in Ben's face, that Ben knew it.

Ben dropped the towel, exposed his blackened eye. Lifted his swelling hand. Took the doctor by the white lapels as though it was his throat, hissing his demand.

XXXXXXXXXX

"I told him he owed me. I vowed to expose him—pointed out the watch on his arm. Platinum, the son of a bitch. _Theed School, yes?_ _How much a head?_ I wanted to hit him, I would have if he'd refused. My son was gone and Padmé was going and all I could think of was Breha, how this would break her. I said I was taking you with me, Luke. Dodonna said it was too late: Anakin had been told of his son before he went into surgery. I said I didn't give a damn, that Anakin was no fit man to raise a child—Padmé's child. And what if Anakin died? I hoped he would, damn it. But your birth certificate had been signed. It was done."

Luke did not flinch. He greeted this fact with the simple acceptance with which he met everything, even the idea that he could have had another life. Luke's serenity should have heartened Ben, Leia dimly thought. Why was Ben still looking so—looking at _her,_ with this resolute, grievous tenderness?

"But there was another."

Luke's calm rippled, a stone dropped into the cool surface of his face. In the candlelight his clear blue eyes settled on Leia's face and flared, there. Slowly, Leia shook her head at her cousin— _no, Luke, he's confused_. Feeling desperate concern for beloved Ben, badly fading, she said, "Ben. No. _You_ know. I was born in—"

— _Indiana,_ a soft, compassionate voice in Leia's mind interrupted, dragging her into silence. Not silence. In her ears rose a high, electrical hum, the pitch of a fine, thin, winding wire. At the corner of her eye, Leia saw the glide of a white sleeve as her free hand rose, in slow motion, to cover one ear against the metallic whine.

Ben squeezed Leia's hand. His blue eyes on hers loving, pleading, insistent.

"Wh—" Leia's voice ran out of strength before it even began. She pressed her hand to her chest, felt only escaping breath. Little bright-rimmed circles burst in her vision; Leia almost rose, almost stood. It was Luke's eyes that had stopped her. Luke who was no more capable of lying than she was, Luke whose gaze was both pinned to hers and searching through. _Luke._ Luke knew the truth, and in his moved compassion Leia saw it too.

"Leia." Luke's eyes were faraway and effervescent. "Leia is my sister."

"I know," Leia heard her own voice, calm despite the implosion inside. "I've always known."

XXXXXXXXXX

December 13, 1936. There was another.

A baby girl, taken from her mother after her father sank into chemical oblivion knowing only of her brother. Ben had seen Anakin's eyes. Anakin had enjoyed the rage, he had enjoyed the infliction of pain, he had enjoyed being the arm of power. And Ben could not consciously remember it, but he knew it, the punishment in the way Anakin had wrenched the keys from his wife hard enough to set her falling to her knees, helplessly impaired by her burden of belly. Toxic ownership in the way he had screamed in Padmé's face, thrust her into the car and driven off. There was vengeance in Anakin's recklessness, cruelty in his lack of care for her fear for her child, the elevation of his emotion over hers. He was wildly drunk. Even if they had arrived at their destination intact, his actions would have been unforgivable. They did not, and so to Ben, Anakin was damned.

It was an obscenity that Anakin Skywalker was a father ( _and I am not,_ a furious voice in Ben's head whispered). Ben had no choice about the son. He could not leave the daughter. Most importantly, there was protectiveness of the baby; there was the desperate desire to do something, anything, for a child of Padmé, his first friend. These things were truth. But Ben also made the most definitive decision of his life out of selfishness.

If Ben had only taken action years before, he felt, he would have kept Breha, kept James. If he had only been braver. And so he acted with no thought of any consequences, later. _Yes_ it was selfishness, madness to take her, to walk away from the boy. Ben was angry, grieving; vengeful.

Hopeful.

Ben would go to Breha. He would bring this child to Breha, give another baby to Breha and she would be free to love him again, they would be complete, they would be a small family. Yes, he would bring Padmé's daughter to Breha, and Breha would love her, Breha would save her, and maybe the baby would save them. On the short flight they took together, Ben was, in his heart, this tiny girl's father. She was so beautiful, so delicate and solemn; she barely cried, as though bereaved beyond any adult measure of grief. She had lost her mother and her other self, her older brother, within hours. Left with only him, Ben Kenobi, to do his best.

When they were settled into their airplane seat, cooing stewardesses admired the pretty newborn's extravagant eyelashes and tiny pursed lips, even as they diplomatically looked away from her young father's torn suit and black eye. And after they took off into the dark sky Ben wept the way he hadn't been able to earlier, in the arms of this baby's mother. He wept now _for_ this girl's mother, even now slipping away from life; and for the woman he loved more than anyone or anything else, her twin sister. For leaving this girl's blond brother tucked alone into his bassinet, awaiting the recovery of his father. For another warm weight he would never hold against his chest. Tightening his cradling arm, Ben turned his face into his palm, to keep his tears from staining the baby's sweet, sleeping face.

XXXXXXXXXX

The doorman made him wait outside when he buzzed the apartment. It was six-thirty in the morning and cold, snowing. Ben stood under the awning, the fussing baby tucked into his coat, his hand curled protectively over her auburn-fuzzed skull. He had a bag of bottles and cloth diapers from the nurses, and even he knew the baby needed food, but the condensed milk would be cold. Wouldn't that hurt her tiny belly? Ben began to dizzy with a mixture of hysteria, shock, grief, fatigue.

When the man strode into the lobby, the tall, handsome, distinguished man, dressed in a fitted three-piece suit even this early, Ben felt immediate relief. The man radiated a sophisticated competence, urbane but in no way condescending. He welcomed Ben into the warmth before turning on his fine shoemaker's heel to lambaste the doorman. _This man has a baby! You leave this man in the cold, with a—a newborn child?_ He looked again at the frankly wailing baby, then at Ben's battered, tearstained, exhausted face. Ben saw intuitive understanding dawn in the man's intelligent, sensitive eyes.

He introduced himself, with a firm shake of the hand, as Bail Organa. It took Ben a moment to place the name, and when he did, he noticed that even Bail's fastidious grooming could not hide his strain. "Padmé's..."

Bail nodded gravely. "We just heard."

In the elevator, Ben assumed Breha had hired Bail Organa as her lawyer through Padmé. Someone to help her manage the money she'd obviously inherited, to live here. Someone she'd called for help when she heard the terrible news about her sister, probably from goddamned Erin Isolder. But Bail produced a key to the apartment's heavy double doors, and ushered Ben and the baby inside in a way that did not feel like an employee. Ben did not think this consciously; at this point he was rubbing the sobbing baby's back, adjusting her at his shoulder. The tall man took the bag from the floor where Ben had left it, looked inside. He doffed his suit jacket, rolled up his sleeves, and put a pot of water on the stove.

A woman entered the room. Young, her lovely hair tied into a girlish braid, pale. She looked beyond grief, as though she'd lost a layer of herself, the one with blood, the one with heat. Their eyes met. Ben caught his breath. It was only a brief moment, and it held everything that had ever passed between them: Alder Glen. The loft with the turquoise door. New York. Pencils, pens, paint, letters. Somehow, silently, he told Breha how they'd been, the years without her; his grief for what had happened to their son, to her twin sister. And from her Ben had the briefest, dearest, agonizing flash of a tiny, still, russet-haired boy.

He tried, then. Ben gave Breha everything he had. Everything he held and hoped for them, Ben put it all into the blue of his eyes.

But Breha's own beautiful warm brown eyes moved to the angry baby in Ben's arms. She reached out; the rings on her left hand caught the light. A gold band, and an emerald sparking vivid color. Bail Organa turned from the stove, testing the bottle on the inside of his wrist. And it wasn't money, oh no Ben never thought it was money, it wasn't class, status or name; it was that Bail Organa made Breha feel deeply safe. And Ben could never do that again. Where Breha had gone, Ben couldn't follow. There was nothing left for them to learn together.

Ben held the baby close, inhaled her sweet hair, and then he passed her over. Breha Organa's graceful hand, stained with no sign of paint, fluttered to instinctive fit of the baby's delicate skull, fuzzed with Naberrie chestnut. And in Breha's embrace the baby calmed; Ben thought, then, that if she had lost her mother at birth, the child would at least look upon her identical face. She would grow up in sight of that face, filled with love.

The baby was safe and Breha would never again be alone, and that was enough.

Breha met Ben's look, fierce and final with gratitude and history. He closed his eyes as she kissed his cheek, the squirming baby tucked between their chests.

And Breha stepped back, easily and right, safe into the side of Bail Organa, who was holding the warmed bottle. As the baby ate, Breha glowed down on her with love and mourning, all the light of the world in her face. Bail put his arm around his wife's shoulders, and looked with instant, unmistakable adoration at the ravenous baby. With a knuckle he stroked her cheek, the gentlest touch for a man so large.

"She will be loved with us," Bail said.


	56. Chapter 56

Ben went back to his apartment and packed a bag. Left word for Jinn and got the train. He went to Chicago for awhile, taught there; after a while, Jinn followed, fed up with their old faculty. But work—art _as_ work—no longer held any appeal for Ben, and he couldn't get the little boy off his mind. Padmé's son. Ben had heard that Anakin had stayed on in New Hope, working for Erin Isolder. Ben had some money saved and so he moved home, to live in the cabin at Alder Glen. He knew Anakin hated him, Ben didn't intend to get to know the boy. Ben meant only to keep an eye on the child, keep him from immediate danger, help him anonymously however he could.

After a few months, Breha moved back from New York to live in the Naberrie estate. The town buzzed about her successful lawyer husband, their beautiful baby that looked so like Breha. Ben planned to avoid the Organa family, and indeed he only rarely crossed paths with the woman he loved. She avoided him, too, Ben could feel it. Every time she looked at him, she saw their lost son. It hurt, at first. In time, going out less and less, Ben did not feel much at all outside of what he put on canvas—especially the hugest work, the one at Yavin, the one that allowed and contained all his emotion.

But then he began running into Bail. The city native loved Alder Glen with an organic and unexpected devotion, and out on the trails or the beach Ben would see the tall, trim-bearded man walking, often with a happy, pretty baby on his shoulders. Bail decided that he and the reclusive artist were friends, and that was that. And Bail was such a good, charismatic man, so curious and loyal, frank, witty and generous, that Ben realized he liked him more than he could ever resent him for what he had.

Bail never let on if he knew about Ben's history with Breha. Ben felt he was too brilliant and empathetic a man to not perceive something in all the careful avoidance, but Ben also knew Breha, knew that her sense of social correctness was, if anything, even more pronounced since she'd moved home. Ben often wondered if Breha allowed herself to remember any of it at all, like him with Padmé's accident. They had come to New Hope because Breha couldn't bear the thought of that baby boy alone, Bail said. She wanted to know Padmé's son, and was adamant that it was wrong to separate twins. Of course, there was some deception, but it was essential that Leia and Luke know one another, grow up together. And when they were older, they would be told.

 _Know one another? It can't be done,_ Ben said. _You don't know Anakin. He hates us; he really does._

Bail simply smiled. And the next time Ben saw Bail on the beach, he had two babies with him, the blond boy and the brunette girl gravely exchanging pebbles, needing no introduction to one another. When Ben raised an eyebrow, Bail smiled enigmatically and said he'd had many years in political negotiation. But Ben saw Anakin on the street, later, and realized something about the rasping, ruined man, looking at Ben as neutrally as though through a window. Anakin as Ben had known him was gone, dead, had been lost with Padmé. The young artist had taken with him his loves and his hatreds. To this black-clad vassal, Ben Kenobi and Padmé Naberrie no longer existed. All he knew was what Erin Isolder ordered.

And little Luke Skywalker didn't truly exist for Anakin, either. He was just a small, earnest, dependent creature that diverted Anakin's attention from his tasks, and possibly threatened reminders of his lost mother. So at first it suited Anakin well, to have the Organas as free baby minders. Luke essentially lived with the Organas, the first five years of his life. And through Bail, Ben grew to know and love the children, too. He marvelled at Leia's ferocious intelligence, recognized Luke's intuitive sense of the world filtered through his eyes and fingers.

When Luke was set to start school, Bail met with Anakin, and formally asked to adopt Luke. Anakin seemed to consider it, Bail said, even almost from the perspective of giving his son a better life. But the next time Bail came by to get Luke, Erin Isolder was there. Anakin threw Bail out, and the Organas had no more official access to the boy. But soon Luke was in school, and Luke and Leia's relationship was established, and had never, could never be, stopped.

XXXXXXXXXX

Ben and Breha talked, one last time. An accidental meeting on the beach. He was sketching the lake, and she approached. It was March 1956, the month before she and Bail died.

He was surprised to see her; even when she was healthier, in Leia's childhood, Breha had avoided Alder Glen. And he knew, both from Bail and his own observation, that Breha hadn't been well over the last few years. Ben believed that watching Leia gain the age of independence, as Leia developed into a fiery, brilliant, stubborn individual, Breha was torn between love and fear. Freedom was danger; it had destroyed her, taken a lover and son and vocation, destroyed the sister that Leia so wonderfully and painfully echoed. And the tension of trying to love her daughter and protect her had shredded Breha, returned her to traumas she had never truly resolved.

Obliquely Ben had warned Bail, years before, about the destructive malice of Erin Isolder. Ben was troubled that, even after everything, Breha didn't seem to hold Erin responsible for her behavior—though of course Ben had never spoken to her of that Christmas party. But Breha had never been able to look on ugliness. She would forever superimpose a sweeter picture, even if it obscured the truth. Breha seemed to take refuge, as she aged, in the social customs that had stymied her and her twin sister. And maybe because of this final yield to rigid order, for years Erin Isolder chose other targets. Or perhaps there was something in Bail Organa's cultured implacability that warned her off. Perhaps she was simply afraid to tangle with a man of superior social pedigree. Oh, they wrangled behind the scenes—Bail and Ben had quietly worked to obstruct every ruthless corporate initiative Empire imposed on New Hope, and when Erin attempted to parcel Alder Glen for development, the war turned open.

Breha tried still more to force Leia's obedience as proof of her safety. It was a mistake, Ben and Bail both thought, both practically and in the sense that it was a betrayal of Leia's spirit—and you could see it on the young girl's face, the confusion and pain at the changes in her once-supportive mother. But soon Leia's chin set into natural resistance. And in Leia's cool defiance Ben knew that Leia would survive all that none of them had. Leia was born stronger and more strategic than anyone.

But on the beach, that blustery day, Breha looked happy. Young, her hair unbound, wrapped in a heavy sweater of her husband's. She came and sat next to Ben, watched him work. Breha did not speak, and neither did he. But her face was peaceful as she looked over the lake, both literal water and the one emerging from under his fingers. Then Breha looked, a long steady time, into Ben's face. She studied him then in the calm, searching way she used to look at any subject, distilling into its purest form before capturing it forever in color. In that look Ben understood that Breha Naberrie had loved him, and James, and always would. And Breha _Organa_ loved Bail, and Leia. But that it was Padmé that both Brehas loved most, needed most, out of anyone.

They smiled at one another. And then she was gone.

Later Ben thought perhaps he'd dreamed it. His father had used to tell him of the fetch, a spirit that went forth from a still-living body to places and people it loved, knowing it was soon to leave them. And when Breha Organa died, when he heard _they_ had died, Ben chose to believe it, about that Celtic ghost. And he released his hold on his own.

XXXXXXXXXX

"We need to get you out." Leia said.

Ben shook his head.

"But you'll die," Luke entreated.

"Nothing." Ben's smile held gentle regret for Luke and Leia; for himself, there was only relief. "Can stop that now." He looked at the painting. "I feel her here. I will stay here. With her."

What was the alternative? That sickly waiting room in Mantell?

"I have no right—no right—to tell you what to do. Or try to teach you, I—" Ben's mouth twisted. "I still don't know. I still don't know anything."

Ben sighed against his own pain, which he had driven himself beyond for so long—pain returned now for him, as his strength dimmed. Wolves circling fading firelight, Leia thought, and ached. But even as Ben's physical life ebbed he seemed to gain in another radiance. From the young Breha a light seemed to reach and stretch, a gold light that softened Ben Kenobi to youth, tinted his hair and flesh. And his voice was strong now, strong, a young man's, soft and with a hint of what may have been his father's Scottish burr.

"Luke. The work is not purer, without love. It is starved."

He released Leia's hand long enough to touch her face. "No decisions made from fear."

Luke was crying, now, with his open manifestation of the moment, of emotion. Leia's own tears were of resistance. Not of the truth of her birth; that was so remote, as yet, to be another planet. But Ben. Ben. Ben's own grief had gone. He drew strength from Breha's light. No longer a golden summer warmth but silvery, alive with delicate, lovely tension. Starlight that had arrived long after its source had become extinct.

He looked back at the twins.

"It's all right," Luke whispered. "It's all right, Ben."

Leia didn't know, yet, if it was all right. But it was done, and she loved Ben all the same. And she put that love and forgiveness in the grip of her hand on Ben's, returned her other hand to Luke's. And the fine light seemed to brighten, to draw on Ben; he did not move but still Ben was leaving them.

His eyes widened in recognition of something invisible to the firmly living. Leia could almost not look upon Ben's beautiful face for all its complicated yearning. And then he was beckoned. That was the word for it, the only word: Ben was beckoned, and his face crumpled and opened at once, gleaming tracks from his blue eyes, a smile so wide his face almost couldn't contain it. Ben took a long breath and seemed to vanish. Space he once shaped returned to air.

Leia rested her head on Ben's patched linen shirt, on his still chest, where she had once nestled in her first hours of life. Luke lowered his cheek to rest on Leia's head, both of them curled around Ben, curled around one another as they once had been, inside their mother. Clutching Luke's hand, Leia gritted her teeth, silent tears soaking Ben's weathered neck. She hadn't been with her parents as they died. So Leia gave Ben all their share of love, grief, pain, along with his own measure. Knowing Ben wasn't her father. This was like the first trip they had taken together; they could go only so far, in this life, and no farther.

XXXXXXXXXX

Leia ran, heedless of Luke's call behind her. She almost fell on the snowy concrete stairs. In the parking lot she had no idea where she was, the moon a dull pewter gleam behind opaque cloud, like sheets drawn over a mirror. Falling, blowing, twining snow. Buzzing of the one sodium streetlight not burnt out and left, or knocked out by rocks thrown by the lonely, angry people who drank here, found themselves stranded here. Stranded, as she was. It was such an empty colorless space that everything seemed possible, everything, and Leia knew nothing about anything. She fell in the snow, rose, fell.

She could still hear Luke's voice behind her, caught between Ben and her and this was unfair to leave him now, to leave the boy who was left at birth but Leia needed to move, she needed to go. Her hair unravelled in the wind; or had she unwoven it herself, let it tumble around her shoulders, for shelter? Primal observation of grief? Or vandalism of an image, it had been her mother who loved it long, who taught her all those binding braids, all those patterns of behavior—

Somewhere, a road. Somewhere, a river. But all there was now was blowing snow. She had just gone down again when a figure cut through the core of nothing. Tall, broad and fast, and before Leia knew it she had met this body, hard. He caught her up and held her close, his huge hand a cradle for her head. He crooned into her wild hair, jerking her into his arms with a show of strength so sudden and rare it broadcast his fear. Like a wave she broke over his stone solidity. Leia was crying so wildly she couldn't speak, and the pain was so much she couldn't map its true source; mourning, horror, shock, rage, betrayal, and also the overwhelming relief that wherever she went, whatever she rushed off into, he would find her, this dauntless man. Even in all this white. Even as past them rushed medics in white coats from their white van. Hoisting their white, sheeted stretcher, running up the white-dusted stairs to that hopeful turquoise door. And beyond that, blackness.

Leia felt the broad chest shuddering against hers, familiar long fingers gripping her skull, stroking. "Leia." he choked on her name and still he couldn't stop speaking it. "Leia, _Leia_. Leia."

She clung to his weight, his breadth, his reality. The fact of his arrival inarguable love, the resolute blunt truth of him. Leia whispered, her voice lost in sobs, or in the blowing snow. "Oh. Han."


	57. Chapter 57

Havin' someone die in front of you was a messed-up deal, Han knew from experience, even when it sounded mostly peaceful. Han went up to see Luke in the old man's cabin, where Luke insisted on staying even though Han offered the Falcon. And Luke said that it was really beautiful, Ben's death; that he believed, now, that he would someday see his mother. The kid was pacing around in his robe at the time. Had the wild holy eyes again, not full of tears exactly, but a shine that was equal parts craving and pain. Han made him sit down and take a belt from the flask he'd stuffed in his peacoat pocket. _Lock that heart up, kid,_ Han thought, and did not say it. _Lock that big Valentine of yours up, just a little bit._

Both Mon Mothma and Doc offered Leia and Han time away, after Ben's death. But where Han took the break, Leia didn't. Yes, she took the day immediately after, a day of lying in Han's arms in bed, staring into space between fits of sickness. Leia didn't say much, but she didn't drive him off, either. She was...enclosed. Lost in some maze. She wasn't locking him out so much as she was locked in. And Han outside, running his fingers along a smooth stone wall, desperately seeking the seam in which to fit a jimmying blade.

The next morning Leia rose and began to dress in her ivory blouse and green wool suit. _No._ _Are you fu..._ _ **serious,**_ _Princess,_ Han had gritted out. But this time Leia didn't try to excuse this compulsion to Han, or hide it, or keep up some fiction that she was fine—thank Christ, he couldn't have endured it. Instead Leia told him, simply, _I need to work._ That Han accepted, understood; it was honest. He gruffly rallied, if in a way that spoke of his own shielded insecurities, tossing on his clothes while claiming he'd forgotten he was due back at the hangar, too.

Leia did not spare herself by pretending she didn't know she was lying to Han, lying by omission, letting him think that the sole source of her grief and shock was Ben's death. Leia _was_ bereft, and so was Luke. She knew they would forever carry the image of Ben ebbing in their powerless embrace.

But mourning wasn't the whole truth.

It wasn't that Leia thought he'd be repulsed by the story of her birth—she knew Han wouldn't care if her biological father was some genocidal war criminal, so long as Leia was Leia, and his. And he already seemed to consider Luke a brother. Han barely cared about his own origins. But Leia wanted to understand what she thought and felt about the truth before she exposed Han to it. And she didn't know. So she strode into the offices of the _Gazette_ in her prim blouse and suit. Polished, poised. Glasses. Satchel, notes. No one would ever guess that, two days ago, she'd gone into a building as Leia Organa and left as someone else.

Two selves at once. The girl from before and the emerging woman. A daughter too many times over, an orphan again and also with a sire horribly restored. A sister—Leia could begin to glimpse herself relative to him, her twin, the way some stars can be seen only by focusing on another nearby. Luke was the bright spot. Otherwise, Leia could not tell who this rage belonged to, this rage that threatened to consume everything in her life. Lies, lies, lies, lies. Leia had always scorned liars, thought them cowards. Lacking respect for others, for themselves, even. Where had this outrage come from? Bail Organa, of course. He had no time for lawyers' cons—the flashy acting, the tangled rhetoric. No, he said. You laid out your facts, elegantly ordered, and trusted the judicious to understand. And Leia had followed his example. Adoringly, blindly, a zealot of all he represented. Because Bail Organa was her adored father.

Leia's fingers closed so tightly on her pencil that she imagined she could hear it creak.

Was this fury a constant? Would it lapse? Leia was afraid of herself. Afraid of hurting Han. Knew she was hurting him in avoidance, yes, but was more afraid of hurting him in ways she could not imagine, could not control. Anger from fear, the enemy of love, just like Ana— _no no no_. Leia was afraid of her hunger for Han, of the hunger he held in his eyes, for her. She was scared of the deep longing between them that Han never spoke of, especially when he tried so to be supportive, but couldn't delete from his heated gaze.

Leia was afraid of hurting Luke, too. Everyone she loved. She did not return Shara's calls. She did not even thank Chewie for the casseroles and chicken pies he'd loaded into their freezer, a lapse of manners that last week would have been unthinkable for her. She sighed. She would see them soon enough, at Lando's dinner. Han had been surprised that she wanted to go but Leia thought she had to try. Try harder.

Their friends tried to help, though they didn't, of course, know the particulars. Ben had no family, but he had had people, and now these people tried to rally around Luke and Leia, the closest to his kin.

Wedge and Janson invited Luke to stay on the couch in their bachelor apartment; when he politely declined the pair covered the outside windows of Ben's cabin with thick plastic sheeting, so Luke at least wouldn't freeze up there. Phil Antilles brought out his industrial truck with the snowplow attachment, and cleared the old logging road leading from behind Ben's more isolated plot to the hilly rural byway that eventually connected with the main route, just in case Luke wanted to leave. Leia assumed he must have, since he'd need supplies, but she hadn't asked. She saw Luke—he snowshoed down to see her, providing welcome laughter when Han, intrigued as ever by all contraptions, didn't want to give Ben's antique snowshoes back. They wouldn't ever fit Han's huge feet, but he loved how they were made, bent and shaped, and made Luke promise to lend them to him in the spring, so he could copy them for himself and Leia, Chewie. _Sinkin' in deep snow is real bad news,_ Han said darkly. _The worst thing, kid? The worst thing is, it's_ _ **comfy.**_

Luke wanted to talk in ways Leia just couldn't, yet; he was processing it all so differently, using Ben's things in a way Ben would have loved. Like a son. It seemed already-blithe Luke felt still better, now, after everything—that simple understanding was enough to explode any resentments. Meanwhile Leia felt like the dark side of the moon.

All Leia knew to do was go to work. It let her be apart from Han, from Luke, from her friends in a way that was excusable to them. That they would not assume had to do with them, although she could see that Han did, anyway, silent on the drives into town, waiting for her to talk. He was a canny man, knew Leia intimately, knew when she was omitting something. So Leia tried to lose what she knew and didn't know, lose herself—her selves—in births, marriages, deaths. But she couldn't even do that; it was as though she saw life through some new, cynical lens.

 _Birth._

Leia used to smile over the exhausted, ecstatic faces of new parents, their little bundles. Now she saw untruth. Theft. She saw herself, cleft from Luke. _Han was right,_ was what Leia thought, as she dispassionately typed up the details of some new life, scattering careless words; words she used to choose and set with the care of a jeweller. _People can't be trusted to have children._

 _Marriage._

Had Breha loved Bail, or was it some arranged marriage? Leia had always believed her parents loved one another. It was a cornerstone of her happy home, her stable life, the foundation she'd been built on.

She thought of her own marriage. Certainly forced—but just as certainly built on love. And that scared Leia, too—the truth of love. She was scared, most of all, of all she had to lose if she let herself go, if she let herself fall completely back into the steadfast love Han offered. Han was the flip side to all her loss, a flip from night to morning, from darkness to strong gold light. Which meant that fate could flip back to the black, and trap him in it. Freeze him. Take him. Lock him somewhere in the black, inaccessible. Maybe she attracted that, the stalking black. The black coat and hat of Anakin Skywalker.

 _Death._

Obituaries were the worst task. Ben had often said he did not want one, but still when Leia wrote out the death-dates of strangers Leia saw Ben again, his last breaths, his abandonment. She saw her mother—that was, _her mothers,_ her father—that was, _Bail_. Her fingers began to tremble around her pencil, shake above her typewriter keys. As she expanded upon the notes provided by bereaved relatives, Han's qualities intruded on her thoughts. Bravery. Loyalty. Generosity. Wit. Capability, intelligence. Sense of self. What would she write, of him?

She couldn't bear it. She couldn't bear it. The thought of Han's loss made her close her eyes in reflexive panic. Leia rose and staggered from her desk, hand pressed to her mouth, and barely made it to a stall in the ladies' washroom before she was helplessly sick.

Esther Howard was leaning backward against the yellow counter when Leia emerged, pale and dizzy. Blowing a perfect smoke ring, the gossip columnist turned to the mirror as Leia passed to the sink, arching a brow at Leia in the glass. Ignoring her, Leia cupped cool water into her mouth and spat it out as discreetly as she could.

"Little under the weather?" Esther's brassy voice rang from the pastel tile.

Running now-scalding water over her hands, Leia watched her expression compose itself into Breha's. "I'm fine, thank you."

Esther went on staring into the mirror at Leia with coy expectation, that sharp brow arching still sharper. Leia straightened from the sink, mindful of her posture. She knew how Esther operated; she capitalized on others' discomfort with asserting themselves, letting her usually female targets squirm under her implied judgement until they blurted whatever information they had. Drying her hands, Leia let time stretch into silence. Finally Esther extinguished her cigarette, withdrawing her lipstick from her mint-green pocketbook.

Removing an errant frond of crimson from the corner of her mouth, Esther shot Leia a sly, knowing look. "Honeymoon flu?"

Turning squarely to face Esther, lifting her chin, Leia didn't show her brief confusion. Esther's eyes moved with deliberate emphasis to Leia's middle. Behind her cool look, Leia fought the urge to roll her eyes. Oh, for—please. How many euphemisms could one physical condition _need?_ But her hand, red and stinging from the hot stream of water and her rough drying, twitched with the urge to slap the prurience from the gossip's face. _Vulgar bitch._

Up close Esther's irises were hazel, but not at all the wonderful kaleidoscope of Han's. No, Esther's mixture was muddy, static, and her heavy eyeliner obscured rather than emphasized; her complexion was thick with foundation and powder. In all this deliberate masking Leia read fear, and she projected this insight with her own eyes. Leia was rewarded with a minute flinch in Esther's face. To cover this weakness, Esther gave a laugh and swanned out with deliberate flourish.

Leia let out her breath, studying her own well-known face in the mirror. There she was, small and fair as ever; the size and stature and coloring still...well, her mother's. Leia caught her own fleeting smile, hurt, ironic. She shouldn't have liked the feeling so much, the feeling of power at making Esther fear her. Where did _that_ trait come from? Where—before she knew what was happening, Leia was bent over the sink, stomach wringing in revulsion that brought nothing forth.

XXXXXXXXXX

The dream again, but changed. Leia was rooted to the New Hope High School stage. She had failed a test, her award was a lie; she did not want it, tried to refuse it. Leia could not accept the prize held out to her by some faceless man. Papa? Ben? It was not Han. But Han was there, this time. In the wings, watching her: warm, proud, sad. Han, receding somehow from her, even as he held her stare. Leia reached out her arm, her hand. _Han. Don't go. Don't leave me, don't._ Han looked down at himself, his body vanishing from the feet up. He looked back. His eyes glimmering with apology. Regret. Grief. Desperate avowal of all they were.

The man who held the prize out to Leia was tall, dressed in black. He stared flat and impassive from behind his damage-immobilized face. He fixed her shoulder in his gloved grip—a talon, slick and black and hard. Dead hand control. The brim of his hat was furred with scattered ash.

XXXXXXXXXX

After midnight Han woke. Leia radiated heat. She was twisting, warding at or reaching for something with her hand. Han gently shook her; eerily, Leia addressed him without waking. _Han. Don't go. Don't leave me, don't._

"Leia," Han's muttering was harsh with horror. "No. I won't ever—nothing could ever—"

 _Took the test and I._

"Aced it, Princess, you aced it. 'Course you did." Han pulled her closer; her fist flailed spasmodically, almost straightening his nose for him.

 _I can't, I don't, I don't want it, I don't want._

"You don't gotta, I promise," Han's voice cracked, as close to despair as such a natural pragmatist ever got. He pressed his forehead to her shoulder. "Princess. Please wake up."

And then Leia said it, her whisper so raw that it was worse than screaming, her small body thrashing so hard that Han instinctively rolled onto her to shield her, only half-conscious himself, almost feeling as though she could bring the roof down on them with her power. _Father._

XXXXXXXXXX

November 22, 1956. Thanksgiving Day. Han Solo felt thankful for exactly one thing: the _Gazette_ was closed, so Leia would actually be forced to take a fucking day off.

That morning in their bedroom, when he'd demanded to know what the hell was going on, that this wasn't just grief, that _damn it, Leia, them dreams're back—_ Leia had moved away from him and hid her face in her streaming hair. "I can't tell you," Leia said, gripping the footboard of their bed. "Not yet! There are." She swallowed, and dropped her eyes. "Things I have to understand, first. For myself." Leia looked searchingly back at him. "Please."

Han stood there, in his coverall, feeling useless. He wouldn't have gone into the hangar at all on the holiday except that Doc had said he had something important to discuss with him, and he'd sounded hesitant. Han had thought he was doing real well, at work, but the way things were going, who the hell knew? Still, it didn't do much for Han's mood, for his faltering sense of the happiness he'd stumbled into. Was it all just gonna crumble, like this? Some mean trick he should have seen coming. Han stared at Leia in the morning light, his eyes searching hers, and was startled and heartened when she moved abruptly to his chest and nested there. Leia asked him to hold her, and he did, happy he had something to provide her with. He didn't answer, just drew her closer, resting his cheek on her head, flattening his hand to her trembling back.

XXXXXXXXXX

Leia was the person Han wanted to tell. Doc had offered Han the option of flight lessons—had actually said it was no obligation, but Doc was getting older, and he was hoping to train a couple of the brightest young guys up to take on a few of the shorter delivery routes. Doc would cover the cost, of course.

Han had been speechless so long for the fireworks of joy in his gut that Doc thought it was a negotiation tactic. He gave Han a smirk. "Alright, I'll give you another buck an hour on top. Madine said you were a tough nut to crack, Solo, but—"

"I want it, sir," Han blurted. "I sure do want that."

He was going to learn to fly, starting in March. Well, Han had almost flown out to the truck.

Yeah, Leia was the person he wanted to tell—oh hell, he wanted to go home and take her to bed for about four hours and _then_ tell her and get done up for Lando's stupid dress code and go eat Chewie's big supper and go home and take it all off her on the living room floor and maybe lay in the hot tub awhile and talk about whatever she wanted—serious, laughter, Han didn't care he just wanted to understand her, wanted to feel understood. Get close again, close to his wife, closer the way he. Just. _Couldn't,_ no matter what he did.

Maybe today. Han felt like his luck was looking up.

He stopped at the diner in the early afternoon, on the way home. Janson had called the hangar in such a panic that it was just rattled joke after joke until Han heard a smart slap, a squawked "..aw Wedge what the fu..." and then another slap.

In a moment, Janson came back.

"We're a little behind on the banquet prep," Janson recited, like a dutiful robot boy from those sci-fi shows the kid and Chewie liked. "And the roof vents are blocked with snow. It's gettin' kinda hot in here, man." Janson swallowed. His voice began to rise in pitch again. "Real hot. We're...we're all crackin' up some, Solo, you hear what I'm—"

Slap. Yelp. Dial tone.

Han didn't bother going into the diner at all, not wanting to disrupt Chewie's exacting production line. Instead he took the fire escape, snagging the stout wire-bristled broom he kept tucked under the eaves just outside Chewie's bedroom window, for sweeping snow and ice from the metal stairs. Clearing the vents didn't take long. There were only four, large but all grouped together in the center of the roof, and while he was up there Han shovelled the latest layer of snow. Couldn't let that build up on a flat surface. He was relieved to work; in fact Han flat-out attacked the ridiculous white crap, he was so keyed up and tight. He needed to sweat. It helped him think.

It was as though the good news forced Han to confront what was going on at home. Threw it into relief. Han could see it differently out here, outside, working. Okay, something was off with his wife and it was his job to fix it. He didn't mean grief—that was one of those concepts you couldn't touch or see, let alone fix, which meant Han did his best not to deal with it. Still, he'd bet his boots that grief wasn't it. Well. Not _all_ of it: Ben's death hurt Leia terribly, he was sure, but it didn't torment her. The last few nights were something else. Something else with her for awhile now. Over a month, on and off, since the article. Losing weight. Her big eyes shadowed. The way she fell silent, watching his face. Bad dreams, and last night the worst, the worst—begging Han not to leave her, even as she struggled away, out of his arms. Weeping in her sleep, poor tiny wounded creature, and shoving—no, not shoving him off, more shoving herself _away_. Leia's roughness directed towards herself. _That_ was the worst.

And last night, when she'd woken—half-woken, she'd been crying so hard. Han had seen Leia cry before, but this was...she'd got up and run down the stairs to the bathroom, convulsive enough that it made her sick.

Something she hadn't yet resolved, something she didn't want to bother Han with until she did. What kind of problem would make Leia withdraw from him? When Leia was forthright, capable, assertive. Naah, there was something else, something shaken loose in Han's thoughts, something hidden and rattling like a loose bolt in bodywork. Wiping the sweat from his forehead with a gloved hand, Han squinted against all the snow-reflected sun. He couldn't quit worrying at that bolt until he'd fished it out.

Breathing hard, Han planted his shovel and braced a foot on the raised border of the roof, looking out over Main Street. Shara and Kes Dameron appeared, hand in hand. She was showing, now, even under her thick coat, and the couple picked careful steps down the slick sidewalk. As Han watched, Kes released his wife's hand, taking stouter grip on her arm instead. With a smile, Shara accepted. She was like Leia in ways, Han reflected. Fierce, smart, proud. Yet here she was, taking her husband's arm, receiving his help. Han didn't note this bitterly, more as comparative evidence. As the pair passed into the diner, Han ran a hand through his hair, drumming his fingers against his skull. What would—what problem would Leia not want his help with?

He put his head down and really chased the problem, mentally ran hard after it. Leia was suffering, struggling with something. She was both quiet and agitated, over the last month. Sick. He felt her eyes on him; then he'd look up and she couldn't talk. It was like she wanted to, but somehow could not. The way she spoke, in low tones, with Luke, then both fell silent when Han came in. The kid couldn't even meet Han's eyes; too loyal to Leia to spill the beans, to decent a person to lie—or maybe it was the kid loved him, too. And the thought of the kid feeling some pain for Han, for Leia, that Han didn't even know how to classify...

The diner door opened again. Two women emerged: that hard-faced gossip from Leia's work, and the blonde who worked for Lando, Horm's bratty poker proxy. They spoke in sly, hungry tones.

"...throwing up _at work."_

Ruby checked her powder in her compact mirror. "You think she caught something?"

"Yeah. Like on her wedding night."

"Or before." Ruby tittered. "Tsk, tsk, Little Miss Frost. Explains why they got married after what, 10 minutes? When you know he's not the settling-down type."

Han's head jerked up. As the women began to move down the sidewalk, he moved too, along the roof, keeping them in earshot.

"Well, she's trying to hide it. _That_ news gets around, she'll be out of a job." Esther considered this prospect with undeniable relish.

"Didn't take them long."

"Well, look at him," Esther sniped. "She didn't want him for his brains, did she?"

"Solo's a complete jerk." Ruby lit a cigarette. "But I guess he _is_ a stud."

Laughing, the women crossed the street.

Blanching, sweat turning cold, Han looked blankly at the snowbanks he'd tossed to the parking lot. Everything rushed into startling focus. Sickness, moodiness, lack of appetite, it was all just like Kes had said! And these changes in Leia had preceded Ben's death. Her vigilant reticence that went beyond grief. Leia was going to—he'd—they'd...

Han stood there, mouth agape, staring at the ranks of white. Oh, he'd chased that thought down, all right. He'd run around some corner in pursuit of a single soldier, only to be faced with a phalanx.


	58. Chapter 58

Han was calm as he drove. He wasn't a serene man, and he never would be—he was too realistic and material an animal for that—but Han had a fearsome crisis setting. Numbly he thought of Janson, again. _It could happen to any of us._ How Han had scoffed, smug in his sophisticated immunity. _Not me, friend. Not that._

And then, with Leia, Han had almost instantly shed the compulsive care that had dogged his equally compulsive sex life. Hell, he'd shoplifted rubbers at seventeen, when he was strapped for cash. Han wasn't proud of that, but he wasn't gonna give up the potency he had just discovered and anyway, he figured, what was the greater evil: petty stealing, or bringing some unwanted kid into the world? Born illegitimate himself, Han felt supremely justified in his theft.

But now Han saw he'd mistaken his detachment for sexual savvy. Because with Leia he'd been swept up in the tide of feeling, into perfect, urgent union like everyone he'd always scorned, all them dopes so animal-dumb they couldn't think to look after themselves. He'd thrown all his pessimist's distrust of circumstances into passion. In the safety of Leia's arms, Han had forgotten all threat, even the most ancient and immediate.

What was this pill Leia took, anyway? Han hadn't considered it once since their wedding night. Shaking his head at himself, Han shifted gears, speeding up as much as he dared on the icy road. He had to get home, and talk to...oh, there was no part of him that believed Leia a liar—this was impossible, not even a consideration, her entire person was the encyclopedia entry for integrity—but for all Han knew, that pill could be mere experiment. Han also knew Leia was shrewd, but at some point everyone's gotta trust the expert, right? And her doctor coulda given her candy for all the effort he'd expended trying to look into reliability. Han bit his lip in a way that was both loving and guilty. Hell. He hadn't looked at anything but her unbuttoning his shirt, blinded by the sight, by the big green light beaming _go, go, go._

 _Now you've done it, Solo,_ Han's mind-voice whispered almost sadly, all taunting gone. It wasn't himself Han regretted not being more careful for. Because Leia had been right: now, Han understood their recent kitchen debate with acutely personal clarity. How much would truly change, for him, in a way that was unmanageable? Shara, out of nursing school. Esther's voice, so matter-of-fact: _She'll lose her job._

He'd just got a raise and the promise of wings.

Would Leia hate him for it? Could she learn to hate him? Could she already? Would he watch her become increasingly unhappy, and hate himself?

These thoughts were so intrusive and painful that Han fidgeted with the radio, spinning between stations. Everything was sock-hops and earth angels. _Baby, baby, baby._ Han grimaced, stabbing the radio off with one long finger, cutting off "Maybe Baby." _Yeah, real funny. Laugh it up, Buddy._

You'd think some rock 'n' roller would write a song about somethin' useful, Han lobbied the universe. The allocation principle, or how to fit a half-lap joint. Or what to do when you loved someone and you'd maybe kno—

 _Knocked up_ didn't seem like a phrase Han wanted to use, not anymore. It made him picture the strength testing game they'd walked by at the fair. _You a real man?_ the carnie had taunted him, holding out the mallet, and Han had smirked, shrugged. Wearing that goofy cowboy hat Leia liked _._ _Reckon I am,_ he'd drawled and sauntered on, just to make Leia laugh. A man, a real man; sure I am. Leia's man. With Leia, hand in hand, free and young in the flashing pastel lights. And behind them, all them suckers steppin' up to try their luck, their guts, impress their girls enough to sow their oats on a Saturday night. Ding, ding, ding. _Knocked up._ It was all wrong, like his unique and beloved wife was some...bell _,_ set to ringing by his virility.

Han gave a high, thin whistle through his teeth, reaching mightily for the empathetic analysis that came so easily to Leia and so damn hard to him. Alright: it was like they'd wound something up. Together. Like a stopwatch, or a timer on some bomb. _Biological warfare,_ Han thought, grimly wry. A bomb that split _them_ to _her_ and _him_. A bomb that would go off in Leia's life much more than in his, no matter how much Han tried to shield her from the blast.

If Leia was hesitant about telling him this, Han had only himself to blame. He'd made his feelings on the subject loud and clear, and now he wished, desperately, that he hadn't because any reassurance, now, would sound hollow to her.

But it wouldn't be so bad, would it? Havin' a kid? It had been kinda fun, really, teaching them kids at the diner. And Han hadn't screwed it up, either, hadn't said _fuck_ or duct-taped that one whiny kid's mouth shut. Him and his kid, maybe they...could build things together? Soap-box racer, playhouse, dollhouse, whatever. He could do it. Hell, look how far he'd come in just the last five-odd months! He'd be fine by the time the kid showed up. Fine. Fine! Fine...

...or close enough. Han set his jaw. He wouldn't allow himself to be anything but.

He heard Chewie in his head, what he'd said the day of the race, the day Han almost ran away: _Time to grow up, little brother._ God, Han had been enraged at that. But now he understood what Chewie meant. Growing up wasn't Han's near-suicidal courage in Korea, though he stood by that part of his character. Pain hadn't much effect on Han since he was small, and though he'd've preferred to stay alive, he knew death hadn't scared him like it scared other guys. Was it bravery if you had nothing to lose? Growing up meant dealing with the stuff that scared _you_.

Now he _was_ scared, all right, Han thought. Scared to the bone. Fatherhood was scary enough on its own, but he would face it. No, what Han was most scared of now was: had he lost Leia? Oh, sure, from one perspective—say, the viewpoint of a Theo Isolder type—Han had locked that wilful girl down tight. He could put any lingering abandonment fears straight to bed, if he liked, because Leia Organa was not going _any_ where. Nailed her, all right. Nailed her to his side. Take it from a bastard orphan: Han Solo sensed, more than most men, what it could cost a woman to try to raise a child alone.

He'd wanted Leia to know she needed him. He'd craved proof she'd never leave him. _Well, you got your wish, jerkoff,_ Han's mind-voice snarled, that voice that loved Leia more than it did itself. _But not like this,_ Han muttered back. _I didn't mean like this._ Han thought of the night of the knife. The night Leia said to him that she'd once feared marriage because she knew her own mind, that she insisted on her right to her own mind. It hurt Han, now, to remember how Leia's eyes had flashed with independence, self, determination, intelligence. How he'd loved her: understood her, admired her. Vowed to expand his own borders to accommodate the power of this amazing person. And now Han might have undermined all that by—by colonizing Leia's body. He was terrified he'd pay for this seizure of territory with loss of rights to her heart.

And Leia had told him nothing. She'd said nothing. He wasn't the only one afraid of abandonment. Failed tests, in her dreams. _Han, don't leave me._ The fear in Leia's eyes when she looked at him lately. Damn it, she couldn't think he'd— _Well of course she does, stud,_ his mind-voice barked. _Didn't you gripe about kids every damn time they came up? At best she's scared you'll sulk, at worst she thinks you're gonna hit the bricks._ Some other timer in Leia had been counting down the days to his leaving. And if he had—if he had started some little clock ticking in her, he'd have to disable her larger one, the one that screamed that Han was here, now, with her, on expiring time. End of October, was what he'd said, his departure date.

Due date.

Fuck ramparts. Han was calling in the air strike. Today.

XXXXXXXXXX

After all that, Leia wasn't home. Well, fine. Stuff was still gettin' handled. Just out of the new shower he'd rigged in the tub, Han went upstairs. Shed his towel, climbed into boxer briefs and pulled a fresh white undershirt over his head. Han moved to the wardrobe, filled mostly with Leia's fall and winter dresses and for a moment he closed his eyes into her rosy vanilla scent. He'd been so irritated by Lando's insistence on dress code for his dinner, but now as he put on his good blue trousers, buttoned himself into his white wedding shirt and grabbed the navy silk tie Leia had chosen for him at the Orbit, Han hoped it would all bring him luck. He smiled at the tie ever so slightly, with helpless, tender lust, thinking of Leia in their fancy digs, so pretty in her sheer pink underthings. Luck, huh. He'd sure lucked out _that_ nigh— _ **no,**_ _you idiot, no, no, stop._ He knotted the tie severely, almost punitively. Maybe it _was_ that night the little clock got wound up.

Han had no blazer, which was what Lando had demanded, but fuck that forever. In the bottom drawer of the oak dresser, though, Han had stored a few holdovers from his prior life. And he was relieved to find it, there, even as his lips twitched with dislike. A soft gray wool V-neck sweater; probably expensive, used to be Lando's, actually. So simple Han hoped it wasn't out of fashion. Han wore the thing on a round of disastrous job interviews just after he was shipped home. He'd been jumpy, irritable. Unable to bite his tongue at the condescending questions, the faint disbelief on the faces of office managers when he said _them guys_ and _huh_ and _ain't_.

Even now Han had to bitterly smirk, pulling the sweater over his head, at the sick joke of his VA man sending him out for white-collar work. After Han asked for an engine shop, a mechanics gig, wood. When Han protested, the guy showed him his IQ score. _You're of very high intelligence, Henry,_ ol' VA Ted had said with benign disbelief, like Han was some dancing frog. _There's no reason you have to settle._ Meanwhile all Lando wanted was the office gigs Han kept getting sent out for. And whaddaya think _he_ got? Straight-up ditch-digging. Lando! Manicured, pomaded, suited-booted Lando. Han was willing to bet Lando's scores were decent too; no one did math quite so naturally and fast, plus the guy could carry himself socially correct in a way that Han plain never would. Shit, the whole thing was rigged so bad, Han ditched the next interviews and headed to the docks. It was crooked as fuck on the water, Han knew that, but there, he could wear what he liked. Understood the slang _and_ the unspoken language. At least there, Han could use his body in tandem with his brain. No one swapped sly smiles when he said _gotta_.

Hesitantly, Han glanced at his reflection. The sweater fit well, close to the lines of his rangy frame, but he'd never liked the way it made him look: stiff with effort, wearing the need to be accepted. He adjusted the knot in his tie. The feeling of strangulation made everything worse. Han didn't feel at all like himself, he didn't feel capable, he felt the loss of his adaptable skills. _There's nothin' for it, Solo._ Han set his spine military-rigid. _How_ _ **herself**_ _d'you figure Leia feels right about now?_ Frowning, Han tugged at a cuff in the mirror. Maybe it was better that he was so obviously uncomfortable—better for _her_ if she could see his willingness to suffer. Maybe she'd get they were in this together. The sweater said _dependable_. Socially acceptable. He'd wear this if he was Leia's proper, college-boy suitor.

He'd wear this to meet Leia's father.

XXXXXXXXXX

Han combed his hair in the bathroom mirror. Tried to—Jesus, it was outta control, he needed a damn drag harrow and a team of horses. Hissing in disgust, he tossed the comb to clatter on the green-tiled counter. Willa cut hair, Han remembered, at least she used to before she went to work with her brother. Lando still wouldn't trust anyone else with his perfect waves. Surely Willa would take pity on Han, if he asked her—snip this sandy thatch into something approaching the social standard.

Gripping the sides of the sink, Han peered into the glass. He'd never spent much time studying himself—he knew women liked him and that was enough—but today Han felt driven to catch, and fix, his most glaring faults before Leia came in from wherever she was. Maybe he could renovate his whole self. Re-set his nose while he was at it. Get the epoxy from his workshop, spackle over the faultline on his jaw. Level his lips—what the hell was up with his lips? Had they always been like that, set in some permanent tilt? Han turned his head, slowly, side to side. From one angle his mouth said _smart-ass;_ from the other, _sulky punk_. And his eyebrows! Did they always toggle between _pissed off_ and _confused_ and _wounded_?

Did his face have to show so much...damage?

Han tried a reassuring grin, and...what the _hell,_ did he have no muscles at all on one side of his face? Today he needed his smile to say _Hey, Sweetheart, we'll be okay._ Not half-fucking-okay. Not what it actually said, something between _Let's go fast_ and _Let's go_ _to bed._ Han needed the kind of smile that was the equivalent of a sunny day. Luke's smile, that would work. Maybe he'd ask the kid if he wanted to swap.

Han grimaced, turned away from the glass.

Fuck. He wouldn't'a hired him neither.

It wasn't so much that Han doubted that Leia loved him, now, busted face and all—her gift of the knife had put paid to most of that—or that she wanted him, there was no mistaking _that,_ even in their recent inactivity. Leia thought he was attractive. Sure, the girl was maybe crazy. But who would want these features _on their baby?_

Naaaah. The kid would take after Leia, pretty and bright and joyful as a Christmas tree. But. Han worked his jaw. How would his kid see _him?_ Some scarred-up bum? That guy in the mirror _was_ a few channels off the pipe-and-slippers Pop on Chewie's TV.

Han heard someone enter the cabin. Scared or not, scarred or not, Han reached for the doorknob. Okay, this was it. He might be reckless but he wasn't no wimp.

He couldn't see Leia, or make out her words through the sturdy new bathroom door he'd hung. But her tone was so piercing, anguished, and—and _frantic_ that Han felt caught in some nightmare time travel. Like the sappy Scrooge flick they'd screened in the canteen that one Christmas Eve when Calrissian cried in his bunk and Han had never let on he heard, no matter how obnoxious Lando got. Han had the sick conviction that if he went into that kitchen, some blue-edged ghost (probably Ben Kenobi) would show him his trapped, exhausted wife, a child she loved and dreaded in equal measure wailing and gnawing at her shoulder. Its refusal to sleep making her weep, too. And another Han Solo there with his big paws dangling at his sides, his own crying apparatus long broken, powerless to fix it, powerless to console them.

Han exhaled the hurt intake of breath that accompanied this dire vision. Closed his eyes, pressed his forehead to the stout door, and stubbornly focused. That wasn't any potential future, not for them. Han couldn't control how hard things got; there were physical burdens he obviously couldn't take on himself. And he had no doubt that babies would cry all day just to mess with you. But _c'mon,_ Han sneered at the nasty propaganda minister in his head, he wouldn't just stand there like some...clown while Leia broke down. _No, fuck you._ Passivity was a kind of abandonment. And he would never abandon his wife in any sense, for any reason: that was straight bullshit, and Han felt a strength in rejecting the mind-reel outright. Things would be hard, sure, but they'd solve it—if Han knew anything at all in life it was that Leia Organa could save the world, if she had to. He was starting to think _he_ was no damn slouch, either.

He heard water running in the kitchen, taps turned on high, like Leia was trying to drown someone out. But still _her_ words flew, unintelligible in the rush of water but tone barbed and sharp, and if it wasn't _him_ in there gettin' arrowed, then who—

The water turned off.

"...a father!" Han's hand stilled on the doorknob. _Luke._

Leia was rendered into silence, which Han knew was a damn-near-impossible feat. So Luke could hit a target, too, Han thought. Though the billboard had proved that, hadn't it?

" _Leia._ I _know_ this is hard, believe me, but—"

"No, you don't." Han had never heard Leia mutter sullenly before.

The kid's gentle voice came back fast, edged with pain and, yes, anger. "How could you say—"

Leia's gentled amendment proved she knew she had been unfair. "It's not hard for you the same way."

Han blinked, confused. How would _this_ involve Luke?

"What does Han say?"

"He'll be here soon for dinner, Luke. Are you coming to Lando's or not?"

"You _haven't_ told Han?" Luke sounded closer to judgmental than Han would ever have believed he could _._ His lips falling open and his eyebrows shooting up, Han was torn between furious hurt—the _kid_ knew?—and validation that Luke had his back.

"Don't chide me, Luke, not now, not _you,_ I—"

"And Han can't tell something's up, I guess."

Han could almost hear Luke blinking his wide eyes. Damn. Luke could really wield that baby-blue innocence like a double-edged sword. And here Han thought the kid had no guile. He _definitely_ appreciated that Luke had his back.

"Of course Han can tell," Leia snapped, resorting to the regal condescension that Han knew signalled her sense of guilt. "Han _knows_ me. He loves me."

She said it so stubbornly and also with such a wonderful dismissiveness, like Han's love was as factual and constant as the sky, that Han's throat stung. That was one goal achieved, at least, one obstacle cleared. _I sure do, Princess._ He closed his eyes, unsure if what he felt was hope or agony.

"It's not gonna scare him."

Leia laughed shortly. "It'd scare anybody."

There was an unshakeable smile and faith in Luke's voice. "Not Han."

 _Ah. Thanks, Kid._

"Well, it scares me." Leia's voice was bitter. "Is that all right?"

"Of course. Of _course,_ Leia: it's heavy news. Which is why you don't try to handle it by yours—"

Leia spoke an urgent plea. "Luke, I've wanted to tell Han: every day I mean to, and while I'm trying to find the words I get lost in trying to figure it out myself. What it means, Luke. What it means for my whole life, I—" There was a pause that Han's mind filled poignantly in with an image of the way Leia bit her tongue when she was afraid of it. "I'll tell Han, I want to, I _will_ —"

Han decided he'd had about enough of eavesdropping for one day. Wasn't his style, anyway. He twisted the porcelain doorknob. As Luke and Leia whirled almost as one to look, Han felt himself fill the open doorway with his limbs, the cock of his hip. His body insisting on its length and breadth; its languor a kind of dignity, or threat.

Han drummed his fingers on the upper jamb.

"Tell. Han. What?" he said, with a grin like a half-bared blade.

XXXXXXXXXX

Han lounged in the bathroom doorway, body as lazily skeptical as ever, but eyes ablaze with a kind of...Luke concentrated on the crackling energy. Desperate, loving anger? Luke looked at Han again, then did a double-take. Han was wearing the white collared shirt he'd been married in and a...tie? Yes, a simple navy blue tie, and over that a gray V-neck sweater. His dress trousers. If not for the red stripe up the sides of his legs, Luke could mistake this man for someone else: preppy-universe Han—no, wasn't it Henry—Solo. This man _could_ be a Henry, handsomely tidied. Luke hadn't known that Han even owned a comb, let alone could tame his hair with one. Okay, _that_ hadn't quite worked—Han's hair still followed its own thick wave above his forehead, formed rebel licks at the back of his neck. But it was a challenge so rarely and clearly attempted that it made Luke wonder what else was going on in his friend's—his brother-in-law's!—mind.

The lean was pure Han, though. So was the cool, impassive mask.

Luke glanced at Leia. She was dressed for dinner too, in the knee-length, rust-colored dress she'd grabbed off the rack today when they were in Priscilla's and worn home. A dress which Leia didn't seem to particularly like. That was odd. Leia usually loved clothes and was as particular and exact about them as she was about everything else she cared about. Priscilla had tried, diplomatically, to talk Leia out of the dress, even though it was expensive: _you look beautiful, Leia, but not like yourself._ And Leia said, flatly: _Myself? Well, who is that?_

Priscilla tilted her elegant head, gave Luke a troubled look.

Luke had bought a shirt and tie himself. He did plan to go to Lando's dinner; he missed his friends, and had come to peace with all that Ben had told him about his origins. He had none of Leia's anger, but then, Luke supposed most of _his_ secret past had been a gift: his revelation was mostly Leia, his twin sister. He'd always known Anakin was his father (though not that he was an artist); he'd always known he'd lost his mother at birth; if he hadn't known that Ben and the Organas had failed at providing him another life, Luke _had_ always known they all loved him—he felt almost everyone had done their best. And, in in the end, Luke Skywalker liked himself the way he was. He always had.

He hurt more for Ben's losses than for his own.

But Leia had had everything she'd known blown away. Leia, the girl who prized knowledge so highly, who abhorred lying...well, Luke didn't blame her for being angry. But he didn't endorse her contraction of herself, drawing herself in close, away from everyone, especially the tall man glowering from the doorway. Withdrawal wasn't good for Leia and it wasn't good for Han. Look at him there, brandishing his wingspan, leaning as though all unaffected. The careful clothes and cocksman posture doing nothing to blunt the edge that always glinted off Han when he was hurt—hurt? The energy coming off him was _frantic_. And he had a right to be hurt, Luke thought: it was Leia's story, hers to tell. But it was also true that Han had never, not once, let Leia down. He was a true thing, _her_ true thing. For her to withhold from him now _was_ a betrayal. But Han felt guilty, too, Luke could tell, though who knew what that was about. Maybe he'd said something insensitive? That wasn't hard to believe, though if anything Luke thought Han had been uncommonly thoughtful with both their feelings in the wake of Ben.

Now Han and Leia stared at one another, unblinking, across the kitchen. This look was the descendant of that intense assessment Luke remembered from the first day, Starwood. The two were now a unit, but Luke saw that there would always be a hint of _opponent_ in their dynamic. Luke sensed they mostly liked it like that, in a way he didn't care to examine too closely when Leia was his cousin and didn't care to now that she was, you know, _his little sister._ But today the air of challenge and anger and defense and devotion, the atmosphere of...of...resolution and yearning and—Luke winced, yes: always, sex—

Well, it was all pretty darned thick between them.

"Hey, kid," Han said, still looking at Leia, their eyes flashing at one another. "You comin' to Lando's with us, or what?"

With them? _Now?_ That had been the plan, but Luke shook his head. He didn't curse much, but all that came to mind was a Han Solo phrase: _Fuck that._

Luke smiled sweetly. "I'll catch up, thanks."


	59. Chapter 59

Han kept setting objectives in the distance, and re-setting them when Leia failed them: _She'll tell me by that mailbox. She'll tell me at the turnoff to the main highway. Okay, by the Anchorhead Exit._ Meanwhile Leia unbound her hair, let it fall with such impatient abandon that Han felt a charge in spite of all the mounting tension and emotional repression. Maybe because. But Leia wasn't sending him any provocative message: instead, decorative combs clamped between her bare lips, she swiftly bound her hair into two braids and then fastened them in place. They swung in a balanced pair of loops to her nape. It was a casual style, more playful than Leia usually wore outside of home or the diner. Han liked it, but it was out of the ordinary for her to wear to some fancy dinner, and seemed to signal some attitudinal change in Leia that unsettled him further.

Han _didn't_ like her dress. It wasn't that he hadn't bought it for her; he liked other new things she'd picked up just fine. This one he didn't like because Leia looked uncomfortable in it, tense. It was reddish-brown wool serge, appropriately autumnal but stiff, the sleeves pointed over the backs of Leia's hands like something out of a fairy tale where princesses fell into comas. It was, Han couldn't help but notice, mostly fitted at the middle, though not with the irresistible wasp's waist she usually favored.

 _She'll tell me by the Kessel Bridge._

Leia took a lipstick from her pocketbook, deep red, and sat forward to paint her own pink lips in his rearview mirror. It was a risky business as they drove their country road, she normally put on her lipstick before they left home, but it wasn't dark yet. It was oddly not-dark, in fact; they moved into a mass of cloud mounding in the west. The clouds were almost tropical, shades of red and coral, orange and pink; in their light Leia almost vibrated with health, beauty, youth. She finished tracing her lips, smudged at them with a thumb, and tossed the bullet back in her clutch.

There was something in her heedlessness, the deliberate dismissal of preparations which were normally precise, that caught Han's attention. Not because he thought that Leia should follow any unspoken female rules of hair, makeup, and dress—him of all people, policing other people's looks?—but she always had before, even seemed to enjoy her small rituals. Even in Starwood, _a prisoner,_ that girl was fearsomely well-put-together. Polish seemed a part of her personal arsenal. So this sudden change, taken with everything else—the sickness, the moods, the insularity—suggested to Han to be a sort of rejection of..of all the pressures of being a woman? He added this observation to his evidence.

Han's observation also reported that Leia was stunning when she was careless. Sexy as hell, and he didn't know why he was thinking that now, all this on the line, and especially when wanting her was—well, sex was kinda the scene of the crime. Han hated himself for his thoughts, at least a bit. Hated that he couldn't help it, he couldn't resist her.

Leia swivelled Han's rear-view mirror back without returning it to its exact position. Normally she was pinpoint with these things, because she knew they were important to him, and it had always touched him—even when, or as, Leia sassed him, she still put Han's things back how he liked them. But now she left it askew with a feline twist of fingers and wrist that seemed to say, _what are you going to do about it?_

Would he ask? He'd already asked once, damn it, in the kitchen. Han took a deep breath, and put the mirror back.

 _What you ridin' me for? You're the one not talkin.'_

As though he'd said it, Leia turned to look at him then. Han looked back; they shared a long, challenging, imploring stare. Who would crack first, and say it?

It had to be Leia. It had to be. Han steeled himself: any minute, she'd say it, the words he'd spent his male life dreading but needed to hear, now, to relieve the tension. _I think_ _I'm pregnant._ Ah, _she_ had to say it. Not just because Han didn't want to sound like he was accusing her, but also so he could get a sense of where Leia was at with it all. Leia _could_ talk about it, it seemed: she had been talking to Luke about it. But as she gazed at him, her eyes fathomless, Han saw himself, all at once, from the outside. Sweater, shirt, tie. Combed. His brain offered him the memory of Luke's face as Han stood in the doorway all gussied up; you knew it was bad when _Luke Skywalker_ winced at your earnestness. What, did no one think he could pull this dad gig off?

 _I ain't so bad._ He said it with his eyes to her: _c'mon, I can take it._ But Leia kept her prettily painted lips pressed together.

Han felt love and frustration and anger surge into his head and chest with such sudden force that they overwhelmed all his earnest plans to reassure her with any kind of noble, masculine grace. The wave of heat flooded his neck, cheeks, rose to his temples. They were only half a mile from Cloud City when Han pulled over, and lost his temper.

XXXXXXXXXX

" _Luke?_ _Luke_ was who you could talk to?"

Leia couldn't tell what color Han's eyes were in all this pink light, but they were charged, and alive, and fixed on her face. And his own face warred with itself, veering between stubborn and hurt, determined and afraid. Self-righteous and self-loathing, all at once.

 _Oh._ Leia thought, stung and shocked. Ambushed. _Luke must have told Han._

"Yes!" Leia looked at Han with real disbelief.

Han reeled in pain. It wasn't even Leia talking to Luke about this that knocked him back on his ass; although that smarted like a bitch, yes, of course, Han did know the pair were close and if that was what it took for Leia to handle it, alright. No, it was Leia's look of absolute inability to understand _why_ she would have ever talked to _Han_ about this before anyone else: _that_ was what felt like getting his nose broken, the blunt shock and sick rush of water to the eyes. All this time, all this time getting close and closer and still Leia was farther from Han than he'd ever feared if she could look at him and dispassionately see someone who she couldn't even factor into this situation. And look at her here: little chin all up, skin flushed in sunset but also, Han saw, in fight. Was she geari—Jesus, Leia was gearing up _now_? How could she still think she was right?

"It's really not your—"

Han jabbed his index finger on the kill switch of that thought. "Don't you say it's not my business, Leia. Don't you dare."

"Luke is my..." Leia bit her lip. _Cousin. Best friend. Twin._ "He's my—"

"Yeah, but I'm. _I'm_ your—I'm the—" Han bit back his hurt and jeered, "Did it really mess the kid up, hearin' about the stork?" He grimaced immediately as he said it, visibly reined himself into vicious check. If Leia really didn't think she could come to him with this, then somewhere he'd failed her. "Listen, I know this ain't part of your plan—"

"...part of my plan? _Han,_ "

He held up a palm. "—and if you ain't talkin' to me about it I got mostly myself to blame, but Sweetheart." Han's throat worked. "You gotta know it's gonna be okay." Leia watched his chest heave in his unbuttoned peacoat. "We can handle it, it's nothin' people haven't handled, right?"

Han waited, seemed stricken at Leia's silence, thinking her perplexity was skepticism. He caught her mittened hand in his woolen glove. She felt Han's grip tremble and squeeze at once: he was scared, she knew, but wanted to reassure her. "Yeah, few months will be completely shot to hell for you, I get it, but you're so damn smart of course they'll want you back at work, _need_ you, c'mon that's not even—and then, listen Princess: we'll trade off. I can switch my schedule up at work, hell, some guys bring the older ones along, Doc loves the little...it won't be all on you, Leia. I promise."

Han's forehead creased as he studied her, his lips softly open, and now Leia could see that his eyes were deep yellow. Deep yellow, and brimming with such manifold feeling: terror, exhilaration, hope, self-immolation. He was almost absurdly handsome. And Leia knew that whatever it was Han was on about she would never forget him like this. She had the strange but distinct sense of his youth, of their youth as fleeting, as though she was looking back on this moment from some far future.

This incomprehensible monologue continued. "My knife. I could, I could make," Han said, rapidly. "Carve...hell, I dunno: animals? We'll need an extra bedroom but I can do that, you _know_ that, huh? I can do that, Leia, if you can just hang tight with me I'll—"

Toys? Missing work? Extra bedr— the look on Han's face: so young, almost unspeakably tender, furious and hopeful and opened to her.

 _Stork?_

Leia's brain finally caught up. Her affection vanished into defensive shock. There was a button there Leia hadn't had before, a painful spot. _Breha, James. Padm_ _é_ _lost_. Her repressed fear and grief flared up into wrath.

"Are you asking me, _again,_ if I'm _in the club?_ "

He winced at his early words to her. "It ain't exactly some impossibility anymore, is it," Han shot back.

Leia pulled her hand from his, waved a mittened fist. " _How_ would you think I—that I'm..." Indignation was a relief from the emotion that thoughts of motherhood now produced in her; empowering, energizing, where before she'd felt fatalism. "I'm not irresponsible!"

Han's lips rounded. "I didn't _say_ you're—fuck, accidents happen, okay? It's just as much my fault as—don't put words in my mouth!"

"Well then don't put _babies_ into—"

" _Dammit_ , that's what I'm askin', Leia!" Han demanded. "Did I?"

"No!" Leia struck herself in the thigh. " _No!_ "

Breathing hard, they stared at one another. Han held up a palm.

"So you're not—not—" He bit his cheek. She saw he'd missed a patch of dark gold stubble just at the sculpted hinge of his jaw. Leia softened at this, and then Han said, almost belligerently: "Are you sure though?"

It was like a land mine went off in Leia's brain, disproportionate to his offence but exploding all the same. Leia ticked the infuriating terms off on fingers concealed under her mitten, biting the words out, watching Han's face incrementally darken. "I am not in the club. Not in the family way, not in a delicate condition—"

His eyebrows beetled. "Don't you talk to me like I'm some kinda _dope,_ you been—"

She projected her voice the way she used to when she gave speeches at school, knowing it carried, rang. "...I am not up poles or up duffs, there is—"

But Han's voice was powerful too, and he raised it, raised his own glove to mark his reasons on his own fingers. "Sick, upset, not sleepin', not eatin'. Them bad dreams! And go ahead and think I'm some, some _one-track man_ but damn it, Sweetheart, when was the last time we—"

Now Leia was yelling, and she did not even know why. "Not a bun in the oven, you have not _knocked me_ —"

"For fucksake!" His roar was both enraged and beseeching. " _You won't even talk to me._ "

His face white and stark, Han hurled himself out of the truck and stalked away, long legs carrying him rapidly down the shoulder of the highway. Leia watched his breath coming in fast, angry plumes. She was breathing hard, too, her fisted mitten clenched at her forehead, eyes seething with tears. But she felt the storm of anger fade, looking at Han there, down the road, hand knotted in his hair, the other clenched at one red stripe. Even from here she could see the pain in his bunched back, in his face.

Her pride and outraged fear receded enough that Leia could see Han through the lens of his mistaken assumption. He thought she was pregnant, and what had Han done, the self-professed phobic of fatherhood? He hadn't hit the road, no Florida for him. Two months into a marriage that took place two months after meeting—mere months ago, he'd never even heard her name—Han believed they were going to have a child neither of them wanted at this point in their lives and he'd gone to the home they shared, showered, combed his hair, shaved. Put on his wedding shirt, a tie, and that...sweater, to awful effect—oh, he _looked_ near-perfect, clean-cut handsome enough to be the cover of a collegiate magazine—but awful because _this_ was so not Han Solo. The sweater and tie were awful because he wore them like handcuffs. Awful because Han clearly thought he'd have to repackage himself completely, to appeal to her now. To have her keep him.

And then Han had gone stammering his way through his slangy pledge of love, of promise.

What he'd said came back to Leia, too. Not _Wow, that's rough for you, Princess;_ not _Send me a postcard,_ not _Let me know,_ not _I'll call from somewhere in Mexico._ Han hadn't even mentioned his own fears about parenthood, which Leia knew were real, and well-earned. No: he'd vowed to make things with his hands. To alter the work he loved. He would care for a baby that terrified him. Han had planned as best he could with her dreams, her life, foremost in his mind, almost surely at the expense of his own. Leia thought of Starwood—of unknowing Ben, of Breha sent to Theed—and closed her eyes against further threat of tears. Not those outcomes for her, for them, ever. Not for her the soul-crushing fates of the girls who became her mothers.

It was not fair for Leia to open her bottled rage about this on Han—no, it was worse than unfair, it was cruel, and she felt ashamed. She moved to get out of the truck, but Han had pivoted on his heel and was marching back, slamming into the cab, almost filling the space with his restrained anger. "You're keepin' _something_ from me, Princess. Out with it. Out with it right now. I let you in; you better let me in too. Fair's fair, goddamnit."

She opened her mouth. Closed it. Of course, Han still didn't know: Luke hadn't told Han anything after all. And then Leia felt a surge of feeling for Luke, too, the empathy she'd shut off over recent days rushing back. Oh, Luke. Luke, with whom she'd shared a womb, with whom she'd held Ben as he died. He'd gained a sister, one who'd immediately pushed him away.

" _Tell._ " Han pointed at her, then back to himself. _"Me."_

And she knew, then, how to tell Han. Tension forced a rapid ordering, in Leia, of priorities, snapped her confused feelings into place. Like a news article, she would start with the most important information. And the most important thing in all of this, to Leia, was her beautiful Luke, kind and brave and boundlessly gentle, there with her forever. All these years, _cousin_ had never felt the right word for Luke, what he was to Leia, but neither did _friend._ _Twin_ , though. Twin, yes. Leia felt the happy, delicious click she always did what a fact, a term, slotted into place. It felt like the two had been promoted to their rightful positions in one another's lives.

"Luke is my brother."

And gratitude cancelled everything else.

XXXXXXXXXX

Leia didn't take long to tell Han the rest. There wasn't much, really, to tell, and she didn't know that she ever wanted there to be. There were a pair of doomed affairs, damaged people tried to make decisions, tried to raise children. Most of them probably did their best, and the rest weren't, to her, worth discussing right now. Her own parents she continued to love, though that love was bound in new layers that she would have to unwrap later, with the understanding of all she could never know. What Leia had now would have to be enough.

Fear, fear. No decisions made from fear. She understood now what Ben meant—decisions made from fear inevitably steered you into what you feared most. In her this had been taking the form of avoidance—fear of losing Han, losing Luke. Losing Breha and Bail all over again, both as a married pair and as themselves. Yet here was Han, putting his head down and running into his own fears: inarticulate, relentless, committed. Leia had to laugh—softly at first, but with a gathering irrepressible burst, the fizzy gasp of something loosening in her chest.

Because Han was here, now, looking at her. In the flesh. Holding her mittened hand between both of his gloves, rubbing and pressing her fingers through the wool as she talked. His face was bathed in fading orange daylight. His eyes searching hers. Unsettled on their color, but they were full, alight with purity of intention. She leaned close and cupped his face in her mittens—her mother's mittens, Breha's mittens, found in a box. Mittens that, Leia was sure, had once been tucked into Ben Kenobi's on snowy walks, sketchpads under their arms. With these she stroked Han's face. "I'm so sorry."

Han's eyes became that gray-green that meant he felt uncomfortably exposed, a color Leia thought of as stone walls tinted with moss. And the flush up his neck and cheekbones climbed red as roses.

"I heard, I...ahhhh." Han cleared his throat. "Heard some people talkin'."

"Who?"

He scoffed the names, distancing himself from his belief in their gossip. "Esther. Ruby." Han cut his eyes away, then looked back. "Guess you think I'm a real dummy now, huh."

"Oh, Han. _You?_ No."

There was no scorn in Leia's laughter. Han knew it, and smiled back at her, his full, wide grin. And Leia began to laugh harder, bubbling up, a freshwater spring. Clean and cool, soothing and invigorating all at once. She was alive: whatever had brought her here, she was alive, and happy to be, sitting close to her husband, surviving the truth and awash in color. Han's spirit and heart clearly offered, with all the strength he could muster. This laconic man pushing all he was to the forefront of himself, where she could not miss it, his commitment to her.

"Han," Leia murmured, and put all _she_ felt for him into her kiss.

XXXXXXXXXX

The windows were fogged. Coats were opened, clothed chests pressed so closely together that neither felt chilled without the heater. Leia sat astride Han's lap, her stockinged knees digging into the cracked red leather of the seat. Beneath her Han muttered relief and encouragement and surprise as her lips roamed his neck, back up his cheek, up over his temple as she sank her hands into his dreadful hair, restored it to its haphazard glory. Han kept kissing Leia so deeply she'd bend back, the steering wheel pressing through her coat against her shoulder blades. She didn't mind, but then Han would frown, closed-eyed, into their kiss and flatten his palm at her spine and lean back himself, her flush against him, only for the cycle to repeat itself.

"Much as I've always wanted to go parkin' with you, Princess," Han finally got out, before he was distracted by the sight of his hand travelling over the bodice of her dress, curving over her breast. He peppered serious little pecks over her cheeks, chin, neck. "...problem is—"

Leia rocked against him.

"Mmmhhhrhh..." Han abbreviated his whimper against her neck.

She leaned back on his thighs, resting against the cushion of her quilted coat and beneath that, the steering wheel. Leia's voice was throaty. "Problem is?"

"...don'remember," Han mumbled, pressing forward to nip at Leia's throat, then lower, groaning at the barrier of the hated dress. She shivered, and he lifted his face from her chest. "Oh yeah. S'November."

"No one said we had to take all our clothes off." She smiled invitingly at him.

Han chewed a lip, knitting his brows, eyeing her as though she was a carpentry project. "Gonna need some of 'em off." He cupped her bottom, molding her against him in a way that made both of them sigh. "But see: I don't want you to freeze your beautiful, _beautif_ —"

She took his other hand from her breast and dragged it, with hers, between them and under her skirt; Han looked deliriously to the ceiling of the truck as she pulled the silk there aside for him. "Oh, holy Christ," he begged.

"I thought you said you were a cat burglar," Leia softly mocked. She could feel him throbbing against her even through their layers of cloth.

Han's head fell to the back of the seat, eyes squeezed shut in breathless laughter. " _Safecracker,_ Princess. I said safecrac—aaaah _that's_ not fair, that's _not_ —"

She had let herself match his pulse, watching Han's expression change as she moved against him, against their hands trapped between her heat and his own hardness. He looked more himself again with his hair dishevelled, face dappled with Big Apple Red, his eyes hazy copper. Han went with her, moving his fingers, his hips helplessly lifting under her. When she bit his neck, he gave a sharp jolted hiss, and his free hand went almost wildly to his belt. But Han caught himself, brought his hand to the back of her head instead. Fingers netted in her braids, he kissed her with such forceful depth that she gasped against his tongue.

"Naaaah," Han growled, with a kind of delicious sternness. In sweet contrast, he kissed the tip of her nose. "I wanna _see,_ Princess." Fiercely he held Leia's eyes. " _You. All._ Got it? Gonna get up real close."

Set alight, Leia seized his jaw and nodded, kissed him deep and hard until he made a sound that was half-blissful, half demanding that she see reason. Smiling, Leia released him. "Let's go home."

Han kissed Leia's neck as he reached behind her, turning the key.

Millie ground, then stopped, in a cough and wheeze.


	60. Chapter 60

From under Millie's hood, Han made an anguished sound. "Aw, baby. Don't do. Don't _do_ this to me."

Leia stood beside him in the snow, holding a wrench. She ached to help and could not; she settled for running her fingers over Millie's grill, willing her to recovery.

Han had draped his peacoat over Leia like a cape and pushed up his sweater sleeves, rolled up his unbuttoned shirt-cuffs, plunged his hands in mechanical viscera. He was making a tight, humming sound as he flexed against engine parts: not whining, an exhortation. Nothing seemed to help; Han's shoulders grew increasingly strained and his eyes ever more denying, his nonsense sounds taking on a deep keen. At last he flattened a hand at his chest, patting there. "It's me, hey—it's me," Han said to Millie, and it almost broke Leia's heart, his pleading, shaky smile. He looked up at Leia, his eyes wide and hurt. "She thinks I'm some...some sweater dork," Han said in a small stunned voice, and any other time Leia would have laughed, but she saw there was no joking in this diagnosis.

It wasn't yet dark, but the Tiffany lamp of clouds was lit now only in the west, catching them in a darkening veil. Feeling the dying day at his back, Han straightened and looked at the truck, hands on his hips, tongue caught between his lips. He squinted off around them: the snow, the ditch fringing the road, the trees about to dispense the night. His eyes fell on Leia, who had forbidden herself from shivering.

When Han lowered the hood of the truck he did it quickly, his eyes sketching not quite at but all around Millie like a chalk outline. Quickly Han stroked her nose, blinking in a way Leia had never seen, tilted mouth struggling with itself. He looked furiously at his greasy hands, his fingers, as though they belonged to someone else, and then he dragged them down the gray wool with scathing disgust.

He went to the cab and got his keys, his flask, his blanket; pulled something from the visor. Leia knew it was her picture Han tucked into his breast pocket under the guise of swinging his coat back on his shoulders. Rolling the blanket into a cylinder, Han draped it around Leia's neck. Then, these last small tasks completed, Han looked at Leia with abjectness. Leia tucked her arm around his waist, felt him squeeze her shoulders, felt his lips roost in her hair. Han pulled her closer. His muscles were so tight that they felt seized.

"We're not far from Cloud City," Leia said calmly, low, as one would speak to a spooked horse. She reeled in the arm at his waist. Han shied away, just now remembering his grease near Leia's white coat, but she held on. "Oh, buy me another one. Listen. We'll use Lando's phone, we'll call Phil Antilles. You and Millie will be in his shop in forty minutes." This was not an accurate estimate of time, but it had the soothing rhythm of a nursery rhyme, so Leia used it. And in fact Han did seem to slacken enough for action.

He took her hand. Gave her a small smile of thanks. "C'mon, Sweetheart," Han sighed, stepping toward the gory, unseasonal light. "Let's go for a walk."

XXXXXXXXXX

 _Cloud City, baby._

It meant the sky's the limit, in Lando's argot. It meant smooth sailing. It meant, anything is possible—it meant, happy days are here again. Or here they are at last, and ain't that great? After all that hardship, all that waiting?

It meant reaping a just reward.

The first time he'd ever seen Han Solo, Lando had pegged him as competition. Not because Solo had decent looks, though Lando noted that particular attribute as coolly and realistically as he took daily stock of his own reflection. And not because the guy seemed to enjoy good fortune, though he did seem to win more than his share of poker games. No, it was because the guy was smart. Real smart, real-world smart; adaptable and tough and quick on his feet. Solo was a hustler, a survivor, and therefore a potential poacher on territory Lando had staked out for himself from birth. If there was game to be had, Lando didn't want to play it—he wanted to run it.

But this was one of many points on which he and Solo differed: Solo wasn't about running anything. He showed up for Lando's poker game alright, but he didn't try to take it over, or set up some rival cover. He just wanted to sit in, though Lando couldn't tell why Han did so with such dedication; he didn't play for the reasons most guys did—for social outlet, connection, to break the monotony/terror cycle. Solo stared at his cards, didn't talk much. Not rude, but not what you'd call shy, either: his bluffs and calls were too ballsy for a timid man. Lando figured Han Solo was in for personal enrichment. Once he'd looted the hoard of sweets, smokes and Korean banknotes, Han didn't stay to drink and chinwag, he cleared out—though he wasn't a whiner on nights he lost, unlike a couple other guys.

He didn't swap pictures or tell tall tales; it hadn't taken sharp-eyed Lando long to reckon that Solo had no people of his own, no girl back home. Lando had no girl, either—he had _girls_ , oh yes he did. In the barracks Lando averaged the most letters a week, both received and sent. Drowning in pictures of pretty girls he'd met at dances and clubs and parties, movies, the beach; Lando could have dealt them out instead of playing cards if he'd been so crass, his queens of hearts and boardwalks and the East Coast Swing. No one sent Han Solo anything. He _was_ young—but he wasn't dazzled by the guys' stag talk, either, so Lando knew Solo wasn't a virgin, eager for any mention of the great forbidden.

Drink? He'd take it, but he could leave it. Candy wasn't Solo's thing; he gave it away, when he won it. He didn't smoke enough to be enticed with nicotine.

The guy was an enigma, down the ridge on his chin: was it a relief map of how to hurt him, or proof you couldn't kill him? Lando would prefer to have Solo on his side, but there just didn't seem to be anything his fellow Ballmer wanted. No lever Lando could identify and exploit, nothing he could magnanimously provide. Of course Han was lonely. He had to be. He palled around exclusively with his gigantic buddy, the guy who made the best grub—Chewie. But he didn't seem to be in the market for friendship—and Han kept any longings of a baser kind strictly to himself.

He wanted nothing, he needed nothing! Han Solo needed nothing, and it drove Lando Calrissian nuts.

And then, the night Han won Lando's truck.

Oh, he let Han think he hadn't seen it, the flash of want that lit his hazel eyes to brief, hot green. At first Lando thought Solo was eyeing the girl in the picture with him, and that had rankled—the only girl made it into Lando's wallet so far was Willa. Lots of guys called and whistled to Willa on the streets of Cherry Hill, and he'd have fought them all, if she'd have let him; no one was going to disrespect his smart, self-possessed big sister. Lando loved Willa more than anyone else, even their parents, though Mom and Pops were kind. Loved her more than his three other sisters combined. Who knew why? He just always had.

Willa Calrissian was four years older than Lando, and he'd maybe worshipped her some. She was sensitive to his drive to be cool, to be in control, to look slick and hip at all times; she did not share it, but she protected Lando's need for no one to know that the Calrissians were _busted_ -broke. Willa was so generous with her natural style: taught him to jitterbug, smuggled him into jazz clubs, helped him with his math homework, styled his hair, taught him about clothes. Willa gave the best birthday gifts. When he'd opened his club, she was the first person he'd hired, if you could call her his employee, which Lando never would.

But then Solo had asked, in the carefully beige voice of the truly covetous, _Hey man, what's her make?_ Lando almost laughed at Han's Boy Scout act: _Golly gee what's that_ from the guy broke down and rebuilt a Browning so fast it set a base record? _Solo,_ _ **please.**_

Interesting _information_. It was the _beater_ Han wanted? Yeah, man: Han wanted that truck. Why? Who knew? He just did. So Lando wrote the note out and tossed it into the pot. The gesture was part deliberate profligacy— _would a_ _cheapskate loser do_ _ **this**_ _?_ —but mostly it was like Lando had written out some prescription, Solo's private cure for whatever ailed him. What the hell, Lando thought, when he lost the hand; it was just some old ride. And it had been worth it, just to crack that nut, get insight into what made Solo tick. Because by then, Lando genuinely liked Han, and his burly friend. And now, Lando had them on his side, and that was good; they were both smart, strong. Lando knew smart and strong died out here too, but being those two things did seem to maximize a guy's time on the right side of the dirt. And Mavis Calrissian's baby boy was out to keep himself _alive._

Lando walked away from that game knowing there were a couple of things Solo needed: one of them was freedom. And the other? Well, Han didn't play poker for fun, or friends, or even money.

Han Solo played to believe that he was lucky.

XXXXXXXXXX

Lando had turned off the outdoor lights when the biggest one of them wasn't looking. Sneakily locked the main doors. He didn't dare do more. Keeping an eye out for that white truck. Still beat-up, but Han seemed to like it like that; he liked to be underestimated. Millie no longer a beater, that was for sure. Not at all the same truck Lando had parked, for the last time, on that Baltimore curb.

It scoured his soul, now, to remember his own pride and Han's Christmas morning eyes when Lando had handed over the keys to the Chevy. They swung from a heavy solid silver fob. It was his graduation gift from Willa, engraved with his initials; it meant a lot to Lando, and still he'd handed it over to Solo, devil-may-care on the surface but bracing himself beneath. Lando would rather suffer than be thought any kind of miser, any kind of cheater. Be thought broke, tight. The silver orb was obviously costly, even to a careless drifter like Solo. He could've pawned it and been in free liquor and rent for awhile, and Lando knew, as his roommate, that Solo wasn't working yet. But Han promptly yanked the fob off the key-ring and handed back. Lando had grinned, so much happier to have _that_ than he was bothered at the loss of his truck.

Solo could've taken it; he had every right. A deal was a deal, and times were tight. But Han didn't. He didn't even think it. And Lando Calrissian had realized, that for all his hard shell, for his mercenary pose, Solo was not the kind of man who'd fleece a guy just because he could.

Maybe that was when Lando thought of Han Solo as truly his friend, and not just someone he didn't want as a foe.

XXXXXXXXX

Willa.

Lando pictured Willa in the corner of the banquet room, her clever, prettily tilted eyes closed, her face so composed and still it was like no one was home. Her arms around Donna, Donna stroking her hair. You'd almost think Willa was dead, except for her curled lashes, mottled with tears she was too proud to shed. Her elegant cheekbone already bruising.

Lando paced near the window, under the gaze of the one with the matches. Big white man, smirking. Rope, knives, gas, light. At least one gun. Lando kept a gun himself, behind the bar, but they'd found that right away. His wasn't the first bar they'd shaken down.

Willa, Willa, his best friend, his big sister. How could Lando call his mother and father, back in Cherry Hill, and tell them he'd got his big sister killed?

Let alone everyone else here.

XXXXXXXXXX

Lando had been there for the first thing Han wanted, and he had seen that look again: that night at Chewie's, the dance party. Lando had realized, back in Baltimore, that Han liked women a whole lot more than he'd let on when there weren't any around—and he was competition, man. He wasn't a cad, but Lando figured Solo for a lifelong bachelor, no question. A sailor at heart: girls in port.

And then the little queen in her green dress. Han's eyes tracking her all night, all the want he'd ever suppressed blazing there hot and constant as August light. And if it hadn't been for Solo's luck, if Lando hadn't seen that in action for himself when Han won the truck, or in all the ways they'd conspired to stay alive, Lando wouldn't have bet on that long shot: that he'd marry that smart, pretty girl, marry her by Christmas. But it _was_ Solo, so Lando thought: _Suckers._ _Gimme the longest odds you got._

Luck. Lando sighed between his teeth, peering out between the blinds. Seeing Han Solo blushing at himself in his wedding clothes, Priscilla had beamed, and even Lando had felt a little choked. Who didn't like a happy ending? C'mon. The guy hadn't had one letter the entire time they were in Korea. And there he was marrying Leia damn Organa.

Lando thought now of that silver fob, handed back to him with such swift, natural quitclaim, and felt his throat swell, felt his eyes heat. He ground his teeth, reaching for a plan, but all he came up with was his and Han's and Chewie's mission code: _situation 100% fucked, if you're counting, bros._

From the banquet room, he heard someone begin to cry. It was not Willa, not his tough big sister. But Lando didn't want letters going to _anyone's_ mother. Around the barracks, Han Solo famously had neither. But he did have a life, like everyone else, and to that he'd stubbornly, defiantly added wheels, friends, job, a home, a girl. Like no one told him the odds, or if they did, he'd refused to hear.

Han Solo. That prickly, lonely, lucky, clever, weirdly decent son of a bitch was probably going to die tonight, maybe in front of his pretty wife. And not only could Lando not stop the fuckers, he'd helped.


	61. Chapter 61

Author's Note: Well, your highness, guess this is it. I can't thank you wonderful people enough for the support, kindness, and bolstering power of your interest in this story. Your feedback has been so brilliant and funny and encouraging and challenging and generous and moving and inspiring and... This whole project has brought me wonderful friendships and as much fun as I've had writing this damn beast, that's the best and I'll never forget it.

Thanks so much for coming on the ride, friends. Xo forever.

And now the conclusion of the long-running soap of New Hope, Indiana! (Except for a couple upcoming shorter fics in the same universe. Stay tuned.)

XXXXXXXXXX

Han stood in Cloud City's darkening parking lot, hands cupped around his eyes, peering into opaque glass. He rattled a handle again, turned to see how Leia was holding up. She was in her warm white coat, wool blanket over her shoulders; she'd worn her sturdy lace-up boots, bringing her party shoes along in the truck. Han had done the same, and he was grateful for that, but they'd still walked for almost twenty minutes. Leia's legs were clad in only seamed stockings, and through the fine-gauge weave Han could see the fair skin of her calves had reddened with cold.

She didn't give any sign of discomfort. On the walk Leia seemed unburdened, little red mitten fitted in the broad pit of Han's hand. Her cheeks tinted with chill and sunset. Han couldn't quite believe her resilience, though he knew it wasn't false. Sure, Han had ached over leaving Millie, over his mechanical failure, but Leia had found out Anakin Skywalker was her _father._ That her beloved parents had lied to her. That she'd been parted from her twin brother. She had watched Ben Kenobi die. And even now, locked out here in the cold, Leia wasn't upset, just perplexed.

Jesus, Leia was so brave. But her strength did not change the fact that they were outdoors in dropping temperatures, that they had broken down on his watch. Han tugged Leia closer. He unbuttoned his coat to pull his flask from his inside pocket; they each drank. It could be worse, Han reminded himself, wrapping his opened coat around Leia's blanketed shoulders, feeling her settle against his chest. If Leia actually _was_ pregnant, they'd still be stuck in the frozen outskirts of New Hope, and Han would be losing his goddamned mind along with the sensation in his fingertips.

His chin grazing the top of Leia's head, Han squinted into the front parking lot. The light was fading, but he could see vehicles—not the Rogues' cars or Chewie's van, they'd be loading food at the diner, Han guessed. No Luke yet, either. There was Lando's blue Buick, a few other vehicles Han couldn't make out.

Han didn't wear a watch, but he figured it for what, about five o'clock? Lando should be gearing into cocktail hour. Yet these locked doors, frosted glass broadcasting only darkness.

It reminded Han of a surprise party Lando had thrown at their Baltimore apartment, for one of his sisters. Excited strangers squeezed into the dark room Lando called the parlor, muffling laughter as they waited for the guest of honor. For Han, the enforced stillness and constriction became a nasty tension, one not discharged in the group howl of _Surprise!_

"I don't like this," Leia said.

The slant in Han's gut was bad, too. Maybe it was that he and Leia had a lousy association with Cloud City: they hadn't been back since that terrible night in the dressing room. But Han couldn't see that history affecting either of them this much. Not now they were married. Not tonight, not after their fight, not after what they'd got up to in the cab of his truck.

This was supposed to be peacetime. So why did it feel like...

The matte glass windows flooded with light.

XXXXXXXXXX

"Welcome welcome," Lando said, leaning out into the cold, his syllables measured between even white teeth.

"What's goin' on, buddy?" Han clapped Lando's shoulder, face creasing in relief. Lando almost winced. "Door was locked."

Lando's eyes flicked to the couple's winter boots, then up to the smears of engine grease. He didn't move from the doorway. Ushering Leia before him, Han stepped toward the heat and light. Lando yielded to their advance with a body language that Leia could only describe as reluctant. She had the illogical but insistent sense Lando meant to bar them from the party—for crimes against dress code, presumably. Han was also nonplussed by Lando's reaction; she felt Han's query in the tautness of his familiar body.

"Just setting up for dinner," Lando said vaguely.

"Yeah, hey: listen. About that," Han began, peeling off his gloves in the warmth, shoving them in his coat pocket. Leia unwound the blanket from her shoulders, folding it neatly but then at a loss with what to do with it. Han took it from her and tossed it on the polished bar by the door. "We can't stay. Sorry, man, we had a little trouble. Can we use your ph—"

Leia tuned out the conversation, distracted by information prickling at her awareness. The bar had been charmingly decorated. A huge wreath made of glossy horse chestnuts hung on the panelled wall above the booths, the bar was dominated by a papier-machê cornucopia spilling vivid gourds, and garlands of artful red felt leaves were strung from the rafters on braided gold cord. The mixture of whimsy and execution was pure Annie.

And there were silly party games set up at stations around the dance floor, balloons and apple barrels, posters and pins, meant to be adapted with alcohol for adult amusement. Perhaps this explained why there was no one out here: Lando must have herded his guests into the new banquet room first, lest they be distracted by fun and hard liquor before dinner.

Leia glanced back at Lando as Han explained some fine point about Millie's transmission. Lando's eyes were everywhere but Han's face, and Leia thought how strange it was for this specific man to leave invited guests stranded outside. No hostess scheduled to work his big night? And even if Lando was doing the hosting himself—even then: no smoothly taken coats, no immediate refreshments; no joshing shock-mockery at the sight of Han in his own tie, no flirtatious kissing of Leia's knuckles; no persuasion to stay for just one hour; no staff, no other revellers? Leia knew there was no way Lando Calrissian, sleek in blue silk shirt and tie, tailored tan tweed suit, was unsophisticated in any social aspect.

"Where is Ruby?" From her mouth Leia recognized the deceptively mild tone Bail Organa used in cross-examination.

Lando stared gravely at a space just over Han's left shoulder. "She called in sick," Lando said. His own normally radiant complexion dull. Perhaps he was sick, too. He was leaning hard on the still-open door.

Leia looked to the stage. The red velvet curtains were open. There were no instruments set up, so the band hadn't yet arrived.

Donna's microphone stand was toppled on its side.

Leia felt a chill that had little to do with the freezing air at her back. She looked up at Han as his arm tightened around her, against her shiver. Han chewed the corner of his fading grin. His eyes, now a heavy gray, took in the same cues Leia had. And she felt her husband reach the same conclusion.

 _Something is—_

Lando let the hydraulic door sigh shut.

"There's a phone behind the bar in the banquet room."

He strode past them, leading the way. Han and Leia glanced at one another. _I don't trust him,_ Leia said to Han, with her eyes. Infinitesimally Han hitched one shoulder. His eyes remained troubled but his face was so open that Leia could almost watch memories screening there. _He's my friend._ Han's face worked to reassure himself as well as his wife. _And anyway, we'll soon be gone._

Leia did her best to shelve her disquiet. Was there a choice? She slipped off her mother's mittens, letting them swing on their red string from her sleeves. Han shoved his own gloves into his coat pocket. They linked bare fingers and followed Lando down the hall.

XXXXXXXXXX

 _Hello, bay-by._

With perverse timing, the Wurlitzer against the wall of the banquet room dropped into "Chantilly Lace." Before he knew why, Han's hand clamped on Leia's wrist. Dragged her behind him. His other hand, trigger hand, flew up and it did nothing, nothing to banish the man in black that loomed at the end of Lando's long, white table. A preacher, an undertaker. Anakin Skywalker. His face empty and immobile under his hat.

Han spun to shove Leia the way they'd come. _Go,_ his body ordered her. _Run. Don't stop until you see Chewie's van._ With impossible resolution Leia refused him, rooted herself at Han's side. He felt her shaking at the sight of her biological father. Han would have tried to brute her away, then, even if it was a betrayal of her. But it no longer mattered: that escape route was cut off by the three men who had emerged from Donna's dressing room across the hall. Han felt a pit in his gut open to recognize them from Baltimore. Hutt guys, tavern crawlers. The tall, bald one with eerie eyes and filed teeth was Fortuna; the shrill ratty creep with the rope was Crumb. Both men were bad news. Fortuna was an enforcer, typical pipe-hitter. Crumb was an arsonist. But Han was most concerned by the third: the huge, _Chewie_ -huge slab of meat with the mustache and the missing top teeth. Called Cairo because he was some SS boxer, Afrika Korps. Legendary in the underground pit bouts that Jeb Hutt sponsored.

Han's hands twitched for his rifle. His knife was in his boot, no hope of quick reach—and even if, what? Ask each man to wait for his gutting? Han hissed through clenched teeth. He could give Cairo a fight, but he'd fast lose it. Cairo plus two? _No chance in hell I make it a minute._

He scanned the room. On her knees in the room's rear left corner was Willa Calrissian, one high cheekbone a knotted plum. Next to her, Donna. The two friends and colleagues had their arms around one another's shoulders. Annie nestled between their bodies, her freckled cheeks streaked with tears, strawberry hair half-yanked from its ponytail. She was missing one penny loafer. The women were on the floor together, but you couldn't call them huddled. They were too enraged for that—even Annie trembled with it.

Three guys at one end, rope, probably a knife on Fortuna, maybe a gun. Plus Big Hitler. That Grim Reaper bastard at the other. Skywalker was big but older, and Han read him as unarmed, though he radiated danger. Chewie would be here any minute. Wedge, Janson, Dameron. Luke. Han's eyes moved to Lando—out of combat habit, Han counted him on his side. But Han's good buddy stood there, looking straight back, his face somehow both afflicted and blank. Like Lando was some bystander to a horrific accident.

Tauntingly swinging his rope, Crumb feinted at Leia. Han's lip curled in a snarl, and he shifted his grip from Leia's wrist to her hand. Leia not only stood her ground but fixed her aggressor with a look of such wintry scorn that the ratty man froze in mid-chortle. Heart cracking, Han jerked Leia behind him, pressing her to the wall. He'd always known Leia was strong. Now he knew she was superhuman. She struggled against him; Han forced her back.

 _Ah Leia. I'm sorry. Leia I'm so—_

"I'm sorry," Lando said. "They arrived right before you did."

"I'm sorry too," Leia snapped, lunging around Han's ribs at Lando; again Han drove her back. She could hate him for it but Han was bent on keeping Leia alive. These goons wanted _him._ They were unlikely to kill him here: Jeb Hutt had a thing for morbid theater. The mobster would want to see Han's death himself, make sport of it. Maybe he'd throw Han in with Cairo and watch him get beat to red mist. Maybe lower him into some industrial drum of dry ice. It was hard to tell, around the docks, what was hideous fable and what was fact, but the moral of the story was always this: fuck with Hutt, and become his hobby. A fleeting one, if you were lucky. But they were here for him, not Leia, and Han would go, so long as they left Leia untouched.

Han could feel Leia's small body thrumming against him. Her heart a frantic hummingbird at his spine. Felt her arms twining at his waist, hip, fingers locking with tragic futility on his belt. _Oh Sweetheart, I—_ no, Leia wouldn't see him die, but she sensed death in the room, she sensed pain and theft in the room. Leia knew what these men were here to steal from her. She sensed, again and always, loss.

He almost closed his eyes to think how close this must be to Leia's bad dreams. And it was _Han_ who'd led her here, brought her here to Lando, his brother-in-arms. Was it Lando, who dropped that dime? Had he got in debt to Erin Isolder somehow, and sold Han out, Anakin Skywalker here to collect? Even now Han couldn't believe that of his old friend but he didn't yet believe _this,_ either. Han licked his lips, turning all his rage and fear and guilt on Lando. Letting Lando see it all go up in fire his eyes, the combustion of their shared history, of Han's new life and future hopes. Han let rage and contempt and grief collect in his mouth and then he launched the word at his old friend like a punch, the word he knew would truly hurt.

" _Cheap,"_ Han spat. Lando flinched, so minutely that no one else would see it.

But before Han could go farther, he and Lando picked up on a new abhorrence: Fortuna's greedy, vacant shark's grin, his reddish eyes gliding over the women in the room. Willa's cheek was badly swelling, Annie's hair had been viciously pulled; under Donna's stage makeup was a split lip. And Han couldn't suppress a shiver that made Leia hold him all the harder, as though transmitting her resilience. He had heard stories of Hutt's beat-up, drugged-up, even chained-up dancers, had seen the girls in the shipping container himself. What if Fortuna thought to bring a few chicks along to Jeb Hutt? Extra credit. Sick bonus prize.

Like Han Solo's pretty little bride.

 _Jesus._ For once it was not Han's epithet, but his honest entreaty. _Jesus Christ._

"Hey now," Lando said, not to any of the men and not to Han; he said it to Willa, deep terror in his eyes but trying to smile. Lando held up a palm to Anakin Skywalker, displaying a shaky but persistent faith in negotiation. "Hey—"

Han felt sudden fury course into his body from Leia's. A fourth man appeared in the wide doorway, among Jeb's thugs. His mouth, usually sneering and malicious, now wired shut. Han locked himself over his wife.

Lando dropped his reasonable expression. "This wasn't the—"

"I have altered the terms of our arrangement." The ruined, sonorous voice bunched Han's skin into tingling knots. Skywalker cast indifferent eyes onto the women on the floor. "Pray I don't alter it any further."

Lando left his position at the door and dared move to the women. Skywalker's impassive gaze moved away from Lando and over Han, then beyond him to the newest arrival.

The Big Bopper bragged, _Ain't nothin' in the world like a big-eyed girl._

There was no mistaking who Theo Isolder was here for. Han's belly tightened. He ran desperate calculation. Could he get Theo to hit him, remind him of his wounded masculine pride? None of these henchmen were known for their brains; they could be distracted from their plans, drawn like hyenas to his blood, pain. Throw Leia off to the side and out the door. Chewie would protect her, Luke—

But another man stepped into view at Skwalker's end of the room, emerging from a painted door that was near-invisible in the wall. Lando looked stunned to see this fifth invader appear from what was clearly his own hidden office, but Han knew—and Lando, fellow Ballmer, should know too—that if any man could find and get into a space without being sussed, it was this one.

The man looked as ordinary as Han remembered. Average height, nondescript features, thinning dark hair. An expression so nondescript as to be sinister. The only things he could not mask were his air of fitness and the shrewdness in his glittering black eyes. In his army-green ribbed sweater and gray slacks, he made almost no visual impact, the utter opposite of Anakin Skywalker. No one saw the smaller man coming, and this is what made him dangerous around the docks. This man didn't usually work with anyone else: he worked only to his own strict contract. He was expensive.

Han had fetched higher bounty than he'd thought.

He felt his planning go up in smoke. His heart accelerated, no break in the beats. He was one taut, electric line over Leia.

Hunter. Hit man.

Boba Fett.

A final shout crackled, gleeful, from the jukebox speakers. _Oh baby that's what I like._

XXXXXXXXXX

Three men swarmed at once. Han hit Fortuna twice with hard, short rights to his bulbous face, knocking him staggering back. But this opened the lane of attack to Cairo, who drove a ham-sized fist under Han's ribs then stepped expectantly back, grinning like some sadistic lumberjack. With a hard sigh Han sheared helplessly away from Leia, bent at the waist. He did not go down, only because his shoulder hit the white wall, and held him. Into Han's muteness Leia cried out for him, knowing he was muffling his agony to mitigate her own.

Crumb yanked Leia's elbow. Han shot an arm after her, his fingers splaying, his face harrowed with pain and disbelief. Leia's sturdy winter boot shot into Crumb's knobby knee. The joint was visibly driven sideways; the slight man screamed, releasing her. Theo seized her, dragging her back against his chest. Furiously Leia thrashed, lashing out with her elbows, her cheery mittens swinging from their string. Theo grunted when one elbow connected with his gut but he was so much larger, finally restraining her arms against her sides.

Lunging, his eyes wide and homicidal, Han pointed at Theo. "You _know_ what I'll do to y—"

Fortuna drove a sucker-right high into Han's cheek. Han turned an instant three-quarters and stumbled. Cairo cracked his neck, and stepped in. Unable to speak, Leia roiled in Theo's grip so that he was forced to lift her off her feet. His cheekbone already a dusky red, Han turned his face to Leia: fierce and resolute and poignantly ashamed. _Don't look, Sweetheart._ He dragged his eyes away, afraid to draw further attention to her. But Leia did look. She could not help it.

Cairo grinned, waved Han mockingly onward. Grimly, Han spat blood from the bitten inside of his cheek. With no macho delusion of contest between him and this ogre, Han simply brought up his forearms and fists to defend his head. With an air of jolly compromise, the brawler hooked a wrecking left to the side of Han's waist. With an almost puzzled sound, Han went down to one knee.

Grief tearing at her heart, stomach twisting, Leia clawed into the forearms pinning her in place. Heard the animal noise in her own throat. Across the room, Lando's face worked with fraternal pain. When Cairo bent to seize Han's sweater collar, cocking his fist, Lando stepped forward—and Anakin Skywalker held up a gloved hand, his scarred face betraying nothing. Leia thought they would all attack Han then, on the ground, on the orders of her _father,_ and it would kill her. But Anakin's was a detached, almost bored foreclosure.

"Enough," Anakin said. "My employer wishes him fresh."

The bounty hunter narrowed his eyes. "Solo is worth a lot to me."

Fortuna glared.

"Us," Fett amended, with an air of irritated accommodation.

Anakin adjusted the black cashmere muffler at his throat, buttoned his sweeping black coat.

"The deal is." Fett inclined his chin at Theo. "He takes the girl. _My_ client gets Solo."

"Mrs. Isolder wishes an audience with him first. With...assistance." There was a wheezing yet almost elegant breath. "Empire will compensate you if he dies."

Leia looked at Han in marble horror. _If he dies._

Han looked at Leia, so wrong in Theo Isolder's arms. _He takes the girl_.

Cairo dragged Han to his feet. Fortuna and Crumb stepped closer. Some instinct told Han not to resist. Not with the room thick with conquest, ready to warp into any horror. The sooner he was gone, the better. Draw them all away like some bleeding Pied Piper. So Han allowed his wrists to be bound in an X at the small of his back with electrical tape. Let himself be lassoed at the chest with Crumb's rope.

"Han," Leia said.

He gave her the tiniest smile, one Leia never forgot, though she did her best. Like he was confiding some heartbreaking truth to her. The visitation, the fetch. The living ghost that heralded its own death. But Han held her eyes, built them a private theater—they were alone there, just for a moment, in the hushed dark, heads together. A silent, flickering history unspooled between them in heat and color and light. _You and me, Princess, they can't touch it._


	62. Chapter 62

Chewie remembered Peter Nyklas as he drove. Not thought of the man in years, yet here he was, rising into Chewie's mind like some fussy ghost—though he hadn't died. Not in Korea, anyway. Chewie almost expected to see him strut into the path of his headlights, waving his clipboard. Docking Chewie for sending the Rogues home instead of bringing them to Cloud City as planned, to plate the Thanksgiving banquet Lando had paid for. Well, the Rogues had more than earned their rest. They'd worked a twelve-hour shift to gourmet standards they'd never been formally taught. Not a hint of complaining. Chewie had tipped them each fifty bucks and sent them home to their own family dinners.

But Nyklas was always a stickler for strict interpretation of the rules. That's what got him the job as barracks hygiene monitor. Nyklas wasn't technically anyone's superior, but he could issue protocol demerits, and he savored this minor power. Under duress, soldiers fell in superficial line, but it was clear that no one feared Nyklas himself. In fact that was the rub: Nyklas knew his fellow soldiers did not respect him, when he felt entitled to their deference.

If he could not have esteem, or fear, Nyklas would inflict discomfort. Vainglorious in peaked cap, gleaming boots and starched fatigues, he conducted inspections at random hours. Like the men were prisoners, getting their cells searched for contraband. Always resented, Nyklas began to be hated. But no one needed his disciplinary interference, his confiscation of precious correspondence. Nyklas sprinkled demerits through the barracks like some noxious Johnny Appleseed.

In Chewie's quadrant of bunks, Lando Calrissian was so effortlessly fastidious that he escaped notice; the man below him bribed Nyklas with American sweets. But the lanky, scarred guy who bunked above Chewie was something else.

Nyklas hadn't clocked Han Solo, at first. But then Solo set that speed record with his rifle. And _then_ he beat the high score in marksmanship. Solo wasn't good at everything. He failed the painstaking abstraction of code-cracking (a discipline at which, Chewie later thought, Solo's future wife would have excelled). He lacked the patience for flag signals. His KP was terrible; quickly distracted in the kitchen, Solo hacked at potatoes instead of peeling, reserving his remarkable dexterity and focus for his own interests. And Han did not belong to the boxing club. Some men were ineligible—Chewie happily, due to lack of opponents in his weight class—but only Han flat refused to join. This launched endless jokes about Baby Solo's pretty face, a few rumors of his cowardice. No, Solo wasn't a star soldier. But he was a natural athlete and, everyone agreed, some type of spatial genius. And Solo _knew_ it, knew exactly what he was good at, which was his greatest affront to Peter Nyklas.

Solo coolly ignored the tall, sharp-faced inspector. Of all the men, it was Han who would not indulge Nyklas by treating him as a threat. But he was genuinely orderly, kept his bunk and possessions spotless. And this maddened Nyklas further, that the man he most craved to best offhandedly flaunted his faultlessness. Solo had Nyklas' type down cold, Chewie saw. Behind the laconic distance, the ironic mask, Han Solo was a strategic thinker.

Beyond that, Chewie didn't know his bunkmate much. No one did. Solo was respected, but widely thought aloof. Chewie read Solo as not unfriendly, more shrewd and wary, like a human fox. Evasive—but when Chewie was drunk and uncomfortable at that crowded canteen party, Solo had offered a seat to him with a careless extension of one long leg. There was generosity in that curt invitation.

So Chewie, who believed in paying debts, had left an orange on Han's pillow. The younger man had a real jones for fresh fruit, but the kitchen staff usually nabbed it first; the rest of the grunts made do with canned. Chewie had heard the small, pleased _huh_ when Han swung himself up to find the gift. In return, Solo showed Chewie a couple tricks that improved his target stats. Mutual favors became their habit, evolving into tentative conversation between two men, neither of whom had ever had a friend.

Chewie could be forgetful of his barracks chores, mind wandering to his pantry shelves. And so _he_ became Nyklas' target. Nyklas dragged Chewie not only for his actual offences but for everyone else's, until Chewie had demerit after demerit, and his mail was suspended. But Nyklas didn't ordinarily get to Chewie. He wasn't the first man so insecure that Chewie's emphatic bulk became some intolerable comment on his own status. Chewie thought of Nyklas as a wasp on a summer day. And Chewie appreciated his life, even an army life, too much to let some pest upset him.

Until the morning Chewie learned in a weeks-delayed letter from his big brother Atti that his beloved dog, Frieda, had died. Chewie was in the seventh grade when he found the puppy behind his family's Swedish bakery, starved and shivering. Her death was good: the old dog had never woken from her sleep on the braided rug before the hearth. Still Chewie had worked the breakfast line fighting tears, thinking of Frieda's kindly bearded face. Feeling somehow that he'd let her down in not knowing, for so long, that she was gone. Let her down by being drafted.

His kitchen shift finished, Chewie was wedged into his bunk, face turned to the wall. It was a lazy afternoon, hot. Lando had set his portable fan to oscillate, sharing this meager comfort with his bunkmates. Chewie half-dreamed of his home in Washington State, hiking rainforest trails with Frieda. In his high bunk, barefoot in his olive undershirt and trousers, Han Solo was peeling the tangerine Chewie had brought him.

The atmosphere in the barracks changed from idleness to impotent frustration, apprehension. Pages stopped riffling, conversation trailed off; playing cards ceased their snap. Chewie felt his back stiffen. Only one man brought on that tension. And only the tearing of peel persisted.

Pete Nyklas was in cracking form, tapping his clipboard with his dull pencil (just last week Han had said, tucking his own wickedly honed lead behind an ear, that if that jackoff really had standards, he'd keep his fuckin' pencil correct). Sometimes Nyklas employed a comprehensive attack, moving through the quadrants of beds one by one. But today he could scent Chewie's weakness. Chewie knew Nyklas was behind him, and ordinarily would have played along, acknowledged the man., got the routine over with. But today, today—he couldn't rouse himself to the task of appeasement. Chewie's eyes prickled behind short red lashes. He'd never been one for panic or pessimism, even here, but he felt it seize him, then: he might never see his brother, his parents again.

There was a thump. Chewie knew the sound of his own custom-sized boot, picked up and dropped. "Two demerits," Nyklas sighed in ersatz regret.

Chewie rolled over and sat up, swinging his legs over the side of his mattress, planting his socks. He kept his huge head bowed, letting Nyklas face only his dense, reddish crewcut. Chewie meshed his huge fingers together, studied his furred knuckles. He felt a crushing weariness.

Nyklas shoved the checklist into Chewie's field of vision.

"See that? Boots are to have mirror shine." With his own polished toe Nyklas prodded Chewie's empty boot, which _was_ flecked with yolk and oatmeal from his shift.

"Now, that was my fault, Nyk," Lando lied, smooth and anecdotal. "Chew was coming around the corner and I wasn't looking—"

Nyklas ignored Lando. He smeared his pencil on the page, underlining a phrase. " _Mirror_ shine." Nyklas gave the clipboard a goading rattle between the great hubcaps of Chewie's knees. Chewie made the mistake, then, of accepting the checklist, taking it in his hands and letting his eyes drag over the text. Something in his face betrayed his lifelong battle with words. He could read his family's letters, kept lovingly simple. But his comprehension got worse when timed, when he was under stress. Maybe it was Chewie's massive shoulders that gave him away, shifting in his special-made uniform. Suddenly it was all horribly back: being in front of countless classrooms, the class giant strangling on language. The lash and sting of laughter.

"What does the list say?" Nyklas said, with sadist's radar.

Chewie clung to the pride of quiet but he could do nothing about the sweat that broke at his scalp. His mouth opened. _Llll. L—l—le—lll..._ If only it would come out. No, he couldn't _let_ it come out, and this was when Chewie boomed it in the voice of Zeus: _Leave me alone._

A new silence fell over the barracks, heavy and instant, insulating. Even Solo's peeling stopped. The whisper and whir of Lando's fan was like respiration, standing in for everyone's breathing.

Under his jaunty peaked cap, Nyklas' lips curved. When he repeated the question, his reedy voice was almost coaxing. "What does the list say?" As though he was proposing _Just concede to humiliation and this can end._ Chewie leaned forward; he was about to stand up. And who knew what would happen then. For an intimidating hulk, Chewie was a markedly gentle man. But. He _had_ swatted any wasp that flew too close to his pup.

"What does it _say_ , Chewie?" Like Chewie was a first-grader again. "I need mirror shine."

"Why?" A slow, deep voice came from the top bunk. "You wanna check out your little hat?"

There was widespread snickering, quickly converted into coughs. All eyes were on Solo, especially Nyklas', flashing with rage and, he'd have hated to know it, relief. Finally, Nyklas had achieved the adversary he truly wanted. Solo's long body was draped on its side, his relaxation an insolence on his taut blanket. The gold spark in his eyes said, _Fuck your demerits._

Nyklas inhaled. "You—"

Han chose that instant to fire his peel across the aisle into a far steel bin with his sniper's aim, hard enough to rattle the can on its bottom rim. Metal ringing faster as it settled.

Someone whistled.

Nyklas reached up and yanked a bare ankle hard enough to tumble Han from his bed. But Han landed lithe on the balls of his feet and the heel of one hand, the other protecting his tangerine. And the eyes Han turned on Nyklas were feline too, green and baleful. The pressure in the bunkroom rose, men sitting up and pressing closer, sure they would see a fight.

Solo unfurled to his full height. Eyes hooded, he lifted the peeled tangerine to his mouth. The way he bit a coral segment loose was more deliberate than a middle finger, more aggressive than a punch. Nyklas went redder and redder and redder; Solo chewed. Pulled another piece free between his white teeth. And every few seconds the breeze from Lando's fan waved Solo's thick hair. In that recurrent flutter was further provocation; there was no way Solo was sheared to regulation.

Nyklas' fingers quivered on his pencil.

"Well. If you can't be good at nothin'," Han said, "I guess this is some kinda way, huh?" He raised the tangerine again and smiled, just so, around it at Chewie's tormentor. That distinctive grin, employing half his mouth. It was engaging and withholding at once.

It was clear Nyklas wanted to belt Solo square in those sullen lips. Clear that Solo invited it, even. Everything hinged, now, on whether Nyklas the guts; he _did_ belong to the boxing club. But when Nyklas raised his hand he slapped—slapped!—the last of the fruit from Solo's fingers. It burst against the wall in a spray of citrus. Han watched the pulpy grenade explode, his dopey expression newly adopted.

"Jesus, Nyklas," Han said. "What a _mess._ "

The barracks broke into laughter it could no longer repress.

XXXXXXXXXX

In Korea Chewie saw Han deal unnaturally well with pain, violence, anger. Hunger. Bullies. Lack of sleep. The threat of death did nothing visible to him, the loneliness, the hard labor, the utter absence of mail from home. No. It was Stateside, peacetime, that Han fell apart, though in a brazen way that masqueraded as swagger.

Lando couldn't understand Han's disintegration, saying over breakfast one morning _But we're back now, Chewie. You'd think he_ —before Han came through the front door surly, poker-broke and lipstick-necked, half-drunk and just-laid yet utterly unrelaxed, looking for coffee before work. Third time that week. It was as though safety was his ailment, something Han's defences did not recognize. It was a strange thought, Chewie knew but it felt like the truth: Han was almost panicked with the lack of threat. So with every crate he stacked on the docks, Han set about rebuilding the perilous conditions he understood.

Han had spoken of his boyhood to Chewie only once, the night in the tent, and that was brief—and not out of any need of Han's own to confess it, but almost as credentials. Flashed his trauma as proof that he'd been tempered enough to survive. Well, he'd been right: Chewie had mourned that night not for his own loss but for what his death would do to his family. Han had distracted Chewie from his bleakness, from his tears for his mother's grief. Awkwardly held him, even, gruff and chiding. But in Baltimore he refused to share the big breakfasts Chewie enjoyed cooking. Han refused to be cared for, seemed to equate this with weakness, pity. _I don't need a fuckin' wife,_ _Chewie._ Getting his truck had helped, but like a dray horse bravely trying to drag the Empire State, Millie could do only so much to budge the weight.

Han's eyes flared traffic amber when Chewie said he wasn't going to buy the diner in Indiana after all. Nobody's fool, Han had instantly known why, and said so, eyes narrowed and finger pointing even as he got his keys: Chewie felt he owed him for Chosin, had to stay and...and _nurse_ him. Han had driven Chewie to the bank himself, a muscle in his jaw jumping all the way. Lando helped him fill out the loan application. Chewie had a lump in his throat when his Greyhound pulled out for New Hope, watching Han recede, leaning on a pillar in front of the depot. He hadn't been able to tell Han that it wasn't that Chewie owed him, at least not in the clinical way he'd just mortgaged himself to the bank to chase his dream. Chewie didn't want his life-debt cancelled, he only wanted it accepted. Han Solo, who would not be loved, who Chewie had no choice but to leave. Han who would decide for himself: did he want to dream, too, or die?

XXXXXXXXXX

When Han Solo arrived in New Hope at two in the morning, red-eyed and unshaven, twitching with caffeine and vigilance, Chewie hadn't asked what happened. He was delighted to see him, grateful that Han had finally taken his and Lando's example and come to this small town, this good place, to start over. But in the dark, clean diner kitchen the story had rocketed from Han, unstoppable, at the escape velocity that had driven him from Baltimore.

Then Han sat back, dazed and vaguely appalled; Chewie watched his walls restore themselves. "Didn't have nowhere else to go," Han said, eyes set firmly aside. "I'll be outta here soon, pal, no sweat on you." Casually he put his legs up on a chair and Chewie saw that Han still wore the bloodstripes. He knew that if they were earned killing that one guy he had no grudge against, Han would have burned them rather than wear them. But they were for saving Chewie, for Han's refusal to leave him, for sustaining the damage it took to save him. Chewie believed Han wore the stripes, now, _still,_ not in masculine posture—but as an unconscious symbol of the persistence of his essential self, proof of his independent nature. Of his capacity to love another. Train him to be a killer, and instead Han Solo would become some contrary savior.

Chewie fired the clean grill and made his friend the mightiest cheeseburger he could. And when Han tore into it Chewie knew he had chosen to stay alive.

But _living_ was different. It was in the days after Starwood that Chewie saw his friend begin to breathe, cheekbones livid with constant blood. Resurrected from some hibernation that prefaced Han's memory of himself, red light of outrage and lust and adoration burning through some frozen barricade. It was Leia Organa who'd made Han Solo want to live. Leia who sparked and maintained the circulation with Han that no one else could, or had. Only Leia Organa who Han loved so much, fell for irrevocably and so damn hard, that he'd yield to her love in return.

XXXXXXXXXX

Here Chewie always thought Han had a way with ladies, but apparently ladies had had their way with _Han._ Because when faced with Leia, with a rush of new feeling, Han was lost. The man who rarely spoke in the barracks exploded into indignant, dazzled, constant words. _Some rescue?! You're goddamned right it was Your Worship, in fact I—hey you gonna walk back to the lake? Huh? In them heels? Ha!..._

 _...the hell you goin'? What the hell are you—oh you_ _ **would.**_ _Walk all the way in them, them little –before givin' me the satisfa...ah you little, brass-plated...Leia!_

Forever outfoxed by her, every gauntlet he tossed thrown back in his face, Han resorted to the ridiculous behavior of the schoolboy he had never been. But juvenile stunts employed by a grown man of obvious sexual success sent dissonant signals to the woman he was courting. And Chewie knew that woman to be brilliant but somewhat removed from everyone—even, in a way, from Luke. There was a sadness and defiance to Leia Organa that no one could touch, that Chewie had glimpsed even before her parents' terrible fate. Han Solo was the first person who understood her anger, shared it as a survival mechanism.

And then that bet. Chewie didn't find it offensive, as Antilles had feared, but he found the Rogues' logic primitive. It was a poverty of imagination to split the outcomes for Han and Leia into _fight or fuck,_ as Chewie had overheard it put. He'd built enough campfires to understand that abrasion was an initial source of spark, but Chewie saw the pair's heat as something else. He saw how, even face to snarling face, Han and Leia drew unconsciously together at the chest. As if their hearts, each stubborn and clever, conspired to escape their owners and reach one another.

Because there was another option for his best friend and the woman Chewie now thought of as _the Princess._ And Chewie had known it as early as an afternoon in late July; Han was in the diner parking lot, tuning up engines with Luke and Janson. As Chewie put out empty milk bottles he saw Leia cross the lot in front of the men, on her way to the library. Han called something teasing to her. When Leia ignored him Han leaped into her path, peeling his unbuttoned workshirt to the sleeveless undershirt beneath. Grinning at Leia's astonished look, Han showily draped his shirt over a droplet of oil on the pavement— _allow me, Your Highnessness._ Janson choked on his Coke. Luke gave Chewie a look of pained commiseration, like they were the only two attendants at some absurd wedding. Flushed, Leia pointed her finger in Han's chest and backed him against his truck, him crowing and laughing, glowing under her attention. Then Leia snapped _I'd rather step in filth—_ and abruptly stung, Han stalked off.

They'd both been furious, stewing in self-righteousness. Leia felt she'd been called elitist, Han felt he'd been called worthless. Yet a mere hour later, Chewie saw Han hide the last piece of Leia's favorite lemon pie in the walk-in cooler so no one else could order it before she came back. And taking out the trash Chewie saw Leia marching across the parking lot. She stopped, spotting a tool that had somehow been dropped. It was Han's favorite, a torque wrench he'd bought in Korea. Leia picked it up from the pavement and, finding Millie locked, slipped it into her pocketbook. Chewie saw the tool tucked neatly back in its slot on Han's belt, which he'd left slung on its hook in the kitchen.

They were in the business of caring for one another. Silent partners. Whether they knew it or not, whether the bettors could see it or not, Han Solo and Leia Organa were friends _—_ except their affinity was complicated by insecurities and combustible physical chemistry. And what was friendship between people who wanted to, as Wes Janson said, _shag each other blue?_ Chewie's bet was on the dark horse. _Love._

XXXXXXXXXX

Chewie approached the back door of Cloud City, carrying a commercial-sized roasting pan. In it nestled his masterwork, a huge butter-bronzed turkey brimming with his own bread, Ben Kenobi's sage and onions. The rest of the stuffing, the gravy, what he'd made with Ben's magnificent produce and the pies remained in the van with yet-unlit spirit lamps, but he'd go back for those; there was no way he'd let his precious birds get cold. Was Chewie tired? Yes, but it felt wonderful and right to open the throttle on his own talent. Perhaps, Chewie thought, that was why he was thinking of Nyklas tonight, visiting him with a kind of pity? He must not do that, Chewie scolded himself. There was pride in knowing your gifts. But it did not do to get cocky.

He was confused, then irritated, to find the bar's back door locked. Lando had specifically asked Chewie to bring dinner through the small kitchenette he'd had built, where the food could be kept hot. Awkwardly bracing the giant dish against the side of the building with his hip Chewie knocked; no one answered. He pounded. Waited. Then, shaking his head, mindful of his cargo and of his tread in the fresh snow, Chewie rounded the corner of the building, and stopped.

He stood staring over the lidded pan for a full ten seconds.

Chewie had never seen another man as big as himself. And he knew instinctively that this other giant was proof of wrongness, just as joy in one's work was proof of rightness. There was something about the man's stance, seen from the back, that bothered Chewie: a brutal triumph, a dominance. Then his shaven head angled slightly, revealing to Chewie the vicious twin lightning bolts inked behind his right ear.

Lowering his burden silently into the snow, Chewie spared no thought for temperature, for quality control. He kept his eyes on that repellent tattoo, faded blue. Chewie thought of Atti. Ten years older than Chewie, his brother fought in the Second World War. Atti once said he'd seen the murderous wake of those who had this fanged double-S stitched on sleeves, etched on skin. Skull and crossbones on their caps. _What did they_...teenaged Chewie began. Atti shook his head. He said, _They were not men._ And he never spoke of it again.

 _This_ was no fellow soldier, common man. This was not a _German_. This was a _Nazi_. There was no acceptable reason for this killer of children to be in Chewie's town. Around Chewie's people.

The SS shifted in his boots, just enough that Chewie saw what was going on beyond him, just what show he was enjoying in the front parking lot.

Han Solo was tied at the chest with a length of rope, its knotted end held by a tall, leering man. Han's hands bound behind his back. He was being dragged in jerky steps through the snow, some tiny creep prodding him in the spine with a handgun. A mean little cackling man waving around a mean little pistol, in a way that drew tight attention from the compact man who seemed to be supervising the operation.

 _Baltimore._

And in the grip of Theo Isolder struggled the woman who had taught Chewie to read—damn it, freed him from a lifelong slavery. The woman who loved his best friend, who saved his best friend. Her face white and drawn, eyes vast and agonized, Leia Organa made the tiniest sound, horrifying in its suppression. She was trying to shield her husband, Chewie knew. As Han was in turn shielding her, allowing himself to be taken, to be poked and jeered at without any resistance.

Chewie looped thick bare fingers through a metal handle. The lid was not hot but it was heavy steel, industrial grade. He hadn't been thinking of Peter Nyklas at all. Chewie had been thinking of Han, his unlikely protector.


	63. Chapter 63

There was a sound like a haunch of meat hurled against a gong.

Leia felt Theo Isolder quake against her. He gibbered what might have been _Holy shit._

The Nazi landed in the snow near Han Solo's feet. He'd never before been knocked down, and he looked up at Chewie with dazed respect, his gapped mouth slack and gushing blood. Chewie was on him, pinning him by the throat, before he could get up. He bubbled something through Chewie's grip.

 _Thought we were neutral, huh?_ Chewie muttered in his parents' tongue, crashing metal into the butcher's face. The huge shaven head lolled, cruel eyes rolling, tongue loose in the open mouth. Chewie cocked his arm again.

Crumb turned, gun shaking in his hand, and tried to train it on the bearded giant, his aim passing repeatedly over Solo. Boba Fett ripped the gun from the little clown before he killed something worth money. And in turn Anakin Skywalker stripped the gun from Fett with a speed that was almost supernatural. Fett opened his mouth to protest; Skywalker swept him with that cold searchlight look and even the seasoned criminal legend complied, feeling a whisper of the uncanny.

"Stop, Chewie!" Han strained at his rope. "Stop! Stop!"

Chewie banged steel off the Nazi's brow, opening another spurting furrow.

"Stop—listen to me, stop! Hey! _Hey!_ " Han bellowed. Chewie did not relinquish his grip on the loathsome throat. " _Listen_ to me. Chewie." The Nazi clawed upward; Chewie hammered his knee onto a thick wrist so hard that his victim screamed in German. Chewie dropped the lid and closed both hands on the Nazi's windpipe. "Chewie! _Chewie!_ Chewie, this won't help me! This won't." Han's throat closed; he forced his voice through. "The Princess. _You_ have to take care of her."

Now Chewie looked up at Han, his eyes clearing. "You hear me? Huh?" Han's voice so gentle it shouldn't have been able to cleave so into Leia's heart, shouldn't have been able to stop Chewie on the spot. "Take care of my girl, okay?"

XXXXXXXXXX

There were two vehicles. One was idling, a long, gunmetal Cadillac. The other was some weird-shaped van, some obscure import. Like a police truck. Dark green and rusty cream, with a maroon hood. Han felt the resurgence of his oldest defence, the bitter humor of the voice in his head. How in the fuck had he missed this eyesore, when he was scanning the parking lot? He wanted to laugh again when Boba Fett took out keys and unlocked the van's double back doors. Boba Fett, who went to such lengths to be anonymous, drove the thing that pulled the circus tent.

In the driver's seat of the Cadillac sat Threkin Horm, like some chauffeur. The rear door of the car opened: high shoes, stockinged legs. Cheerful yellow dress suit, very mother of the groom. Erin Isolder waved at Leia, curling each sharp-ended finger one by one. In Theo's grip, Leia felt faint with rage and horror. As Han was dragged toward the open back doors of the van, Leia ransacked her history for something, anything, that could save him. A house on fire, her life on fire, red taillights igniting wraiths of exhaust. The essentials, only the essentials. Let everything else fall to loss.

Were Han's eyes amber, now? How did he do that? What was the word for their color? It was not hazel, that would not do, that would not do, no, not—Leia scrabbled for the rite, the way to name him, the protective spell to twine around him. Wished, now, that she had his ring, that he wore her own. Why? Why? A binding circle, precious metal, yellow and warm as his eyes. Not for him the obituary terms— _husband, friend, orphan, veteran_ —not _lover,_ not _beloved_. Columns of useless, sterile symbols. Primer words, primary: _Please. You. I._ She was breaking into the futile, jagged alphabet. _Han._

"Put him in." Anakin Skywalker said. More child-words: _Father._ _No._

Crumb limped up into the back of the van, ghoulishly eager despite his swollen knee. Face pulped, reeling and bleeding but back on his feet, Cairo followed. And Han pushed forward so hard and suddenly that Fortuna yelped as the rope-leash burned a strip in his palms. Leia jerked free too, somehow, from Theo Isolder's grasp. Han descended; Leia raised her face to him without pause or question. They met in a kiss so forceful and bonding it was as though before some terrible altar. Leia abandoned all words for him, ripped up every attempt and threw it to the fates, into the cruel, watching faces. And Han's own expression twisted in grief: it was not enough, could not be enough. This kiss, not enough, no matter how hard he impressed it on her, no matter how laced with his blood.

Then Cairo wrenched Han away, and Leia felt her heart tear from her chest, to go with him. She threw it after him, the only words that meant anything. _I love you._

It was so quiet then they could hear the river. The Kessel, sweeping behind the bar, indifferent in the dark, in the falling snow. Han's love for her rose with the water in his eyes. And if Han said it too—if he said he loved Leia now the tears would fall, and destroy her. So Han held Leia's eyes and said _I know._ And hoped he'd built that phrase sound enough to bear his heart to her.

Fortuna shoved Han into the maw of the van, where Cairo and Crumb were already sitting on benches facing one another. He got in after the prisoner. Threkin Horm left the Cadillac and startled Fett by climbing into his passenger's seat. Again Theo gripped Leia's arms. Chewie stepped close, giving Theo such a look of searing blue menace that Theo fairly leapt back from Leia, raised hands pleading their emptiness. Erin's lip curled; she made some motion with her hand, and with a strange, robotic obedience Anakin Skywalker gave Theo the gun. Theo looked astonished, his eyes flying to his mother.

Chewie pulled Leia back into his arms. He was crying, silent streams of helpless fury. And Han knew how strong Chewie was then—his best friend, who had tossed a tree-trunk on a bet in Korea, this is when Han truly felt Chewie's love and power: in his restraint of that power, all for Leia's safety.

 _Leia._ Han found her eyes, so burdened and bleak. _Leia I—_

Crumb slapped Han's cheek. Chortling, he did it again. And something in Han withdrew, spirit leaving his bruised face, his expressive eyes shuttered. Leia glimpsed the youth he'd been, remote and hard. The cocky angle of the scar on his chin stood in for the smirk he could not muster.

Fortuna and Cairo swung the doors shut. Han and Leia were severed with a hollow boom, metal hitting metal.

XXXXXXXXXX

When the van was gone, Erin Isolder's gaze found her only son. Theo arranged himself in a desperately masculine pose; in fact, an approximation of Han Solo's cocksure stance. In this posture he seemed better able to hold the gun. His mother waved him closer and when Theo went, there was pain and fear in his crude swagger.

Erin sat back into sumptuous leather. Smiling as though her big boy had just found a BB gun under the Christmas tree.

"Don't come home," Erin said, "Until you've sorted _her_ out."

She gestured at Anakin Skywalker to shut the car door. She did not bother to look at Leia.

XXXXXXXXXX

Leia felt the cold implosion threaten. She threw everything she was outward against the closing walls. _Think._

Erin had so casually left her to Theo. Now Leia understood: the enemy wasn't _her,_ just as it wasn't Han, as it hadn't been Padmé or Ben. Erin's enemy was resistance. She thought Leia was finished, that seeing Han hurt, seeing him taken, would break her. She thought she could break the daughter as she broke Breha, broke Ben. That the spells that broke one heart would break them all.

That bitch, always leaning over Leia's crib, cursing a spindle.

But Erin's logic was the lazy, circular arrogance Bail Organa warned against. _Do not,_ her father said, _confuse provenance with validity._ Leia was not Breha. She was not Ben. Not Padmé, not Anakin. She could not be driven off from love. Could not be hounded into breakdown, isolation or servitude.

She eyed the gun hanging from Theo's fingers, at his side.

 _Sorted out._ Leia was a piece of meat, thrown into some pit; bait to draw out the viciousness in a disappointing pet. Theo looked at Leia, weirdly unafraid, so newly unafraid that Leia knew again just how much he'd always feared her. _Oh, you should._ Leia planned to do Theo harm, tonight, if harm was required. Because she was not, not tonight and not ever again, getting into that black Corvette.

"Lee." From between his tight-wired jaws, Theo ground out the hated nickname. Not condescending this time, but an appeal to their shared history, however ugly. "Are you. Having a baby?"

Leia stared.

Chewie's arm tightened on her; somehow Leia communicated the truth to him through the set of her shoulders, and he fractionally relaxed.

"Ruby said," Theo prompted her, and Leia knew that he wanted it to be true, regardless of what primal triumph by his rival meant. Another stupid euphemism occurred to her: _delicate condition._ He still needed her to be fragile, but this time, so he could be a hero. He would project on her the answer he wanted. Who or what Leia _was_ didn't matter. It never had.

Luke's voice in Leia's mind. _Just as who Theo was didn't matter to his mother._ Luke was sometimes able to tap so deeply into empathy that it became some influential energy. Now Leia stretched for her own version: she was the crux of wrath and compassion. And through this filter she saw something human in Theo's small blue eyes. Something that, having felt grievous pain at the hands of Han Solo, had an inkling of what was felt by others. A boy who'd lost his own father, left to be raised by Erin Isolder.

And for his part, even limited Theo understood the message in Leia Organa's stare. He could never have her respect, or her acquiescence. In Leia's eyes was this choice: blunt death or dismissal from her contempt. She would give him nothing less, and nothing else. And so Theo lifted his battered face with Hollywood chivalry, let himself believe he was a gallant man instead of frightened. And so he displayed to Leia his one beautiful gift: his quarterback's arm. The gun spiralled into the dark, so hard and far they heard the splash into the deep bend of the Kessel. Theo turned and walked into the night, to wherever he'd left his car.

XXXXXXXXXX

Now that Willa, Donna and Annie were safe, all bets were off. They'd taken Lando's honor and his brotherhood, and he would have them back, even if he had to die in the attempt.

"We're going after Han."

Lando appeared at Leia's side in the freezing night, carrying Han's blanket, swirling his overcoat about his shoulders like a cape. Leia turned a scathing face on him, snatching back the blanket. Chewie's arm shot out. He seized his old friend by the throat, lifting Lando from the ground, pinning him against his van. Lando gurgled, clutching Chewie's brawny forearm.

"Jesus, Chew!" Lando choked. "I—"

Unable to speak it, Chewie put all his anguish into his grip. _Han._ Lando's throat made a creaking sound. Chewie didn't care. Han was gone, could be dead now. He didn't care about Calrissian's excuses. Tears gathered in the corners of Lando's normally playful, astute eyes; Chewie didn't care, he told himself. Han, his best friend. He didn't _care,_ even as grief and futility flooded his own narrow blue gaze.

" _Chewie."_

Even Han had had to plead the brakes into his friend, but Willa's tone stopped Chewie at once. At Cloud City Lando was the brilliant business and social mind, but Willa was the boss; still that was not it, not the sole source of her authority now.

"They had a gun. Gas. Matches." Willa's face twisted. "Punched me in the face right at the door. Lando said take all the money, all the liquor. Lando said, take _him_ —" She closed her eyes against some ancient sickness. "...they had rope. Chewie. You _can't_ know."

Her voice shook with such horror, and pride in her brother, that Leia was shaken, too, enough that her own rage at Lando fell from her like dead leaves. The rage belonged with others.

Willa made a fist. "They'd have done it. Burned it all down, with everyone inside. And that's _after_ we, the women, that little girl—my brother saved our lives. Don't you dare, Chewie. I love you but... _don't._ "

Chewie didn't know, of course, anything but what it meant to be a white man, and a huge one at that. But he had been a soldier, had seen human cruelty, understood it could mutate, metastasize. One of the reasons he'd bonded with Han and Lando in Korea was that nights out with them on R&R never had that feeling that sometimes took hold in groups of young soldiers, all that unfocused lust, violence, boredom, fear spiralling into atrocity.

"I didn't mean for," Lando croaked. "I would never—Han." His voice broke, and Chewie pulled him close into a rough embrace. He wasn't sure, himself, if he was consoling his old friend or shaking him. Lando held Chewie in return then straightened himself, drew himself up, throwing his head back in the inherent style, the self-possession, that no man would ever claim from him.

By this time efficient Willa had already back gone inside, barricaded the doors; Donna was on the phone with Crix Madine.

XXXXXXXXXX

The night slipped around Chewie's van. Leia stared into it, mind ticking over, clean and hot. Falling snow. Road signs flying past, faster, faster. It was an hour to Mantell and then farther. Catch them before they left the state.

Something hung in the balance, a suspended blade. A leap of faith. In the small rumble seat behind the driver, Leia held her fists clenched on her thighs. Stared at her fists on her thighs. It wasn't right. It would never be right, all these lies, all this pain. It would never be right but it could be, it could be... _all right._ It could be all right, if only she had Han. Leia could be all right. Those were her terms, she told the night outside. Told her parents, whoever they were, wherever. She demanded it of all lost three. _You will give him back to me._

 _Han._ Anguish bent into resolve. Determination inseparable from anger. She would embrace it: the way she was made, no matter who made her. If her husband lived, Leia would yield to the unknowable ways that people are born, live and bond and die. _Give him back. I will allow it all._


	64. Chapter 64

Han expected to be taken straight to Baltimore, no matter what Anakin Skywalker had ordered; Skywalker was driving Erin Isolder in the Caddy, he was not here, now, in the world's most sinister ice cream van. That gelding Threkin Horm was no substitute. If Han had been the bounty hunter, he'd have pulled over just out of town and calmly put two bullets in the back of his chaperone's head. Gone on his way with his quarry, collected his money. When Boba Fett did none of this, just drove in silence under Horm's imperious direction, Han began to suspect that Boba Fett as he'd believed him wasn't quite the truth. Han didn't feel glee or disappointment at this demotion. He simply factored the information into his survival calculations.

And studied it. Studied it. Something, anything to wrench his mind from his last glimpse of Leia's haunted face. It was like being plunged, in slow motion, on an elevator to hell. That was how it felt: the fiery taillight mist, the mounting pressure in his ears and chest. Her huge, shadowed eyes. Han tried his bindings; twisted the electrical tape at his wrists, just so. Just so much. He did not want them to snap, to be visibly broken.

The van left the highway for the plowed back road to Ben Kenobi's cabin. It was snowing enough now that Han doubted an inexperienced driver could get back down, and the road was rough. A gas can sloshed and thumped against Han's bench. Crumb settled it into place between his knees, pressed his hand to its distended red belly. The other goons were too stupid to think this through, but Han sensed that in his contained way, Boba Fett had grown agitated. Spending the night in some rural snowbank was not a situation he had anticipated.

The headlights of Anakin Skywalker's Cadillac illuminated the back of the van, making Han's captors squint. Han looked back at Ben Kenobi's cabin. So this was it, cards face-up. Not knowing the significance of Alder Glen, Boba Fett had been taken for a mark: at no point was Han to be relinquished to Jeb Hutt. There was no _if_ he died here, the plan was for Han to die here. If Empire couldn't have the land Erin Isolder meant to taint the land. Desecrate the land for Leia forever.

The bounty hunter shifted in his seat, knowing something was off. Watching his fee dissipate. Han gave a hard smile in the dark. _Not as smart as you thought, huh?_

He stretched his bindings, just a bit.

XXXXXXXXXX

Even still groggy from Chewie's beating, Cairo kicked in Ben's door. The door Han had taken down and re-planed. And in this brutal disrespect of another man's home, another man's labor, Han felt his own coming assault. He set his spine. Luke's car was gone, and that was good. That was fine, that meant—

Anakin Skywalker escorted Erin Isolder through the snow. Her preening, beaming—did she think of this ridiculous band of hired thugs, lawyer toady and surly captive as her adoring public? Cairo went to enter the cabin first, the privilege of overweening bulk. Cutting off Erin's path. Threkin Horm glared, waving Cairo haughtily back, insisting on the primacy of his boss. With a cool nod, Erin left Skywalker's arm for Horm's and sailed through the splintered doorway as though into a ball, leaving Skywalker at the door. Making him wait with the abashed henchmen, with their prisoner.

Han's eyes met Boba Fett's. And in those shrewd eyes Han saw the flicker of disbelief, maybe even disquiet, at this bizarre ritual of etiquette.

"Nazis." Han said. "No class, right?"

His mangled face contorting, Cairo picked Han bodily up and hurled him through the doorway. Han crashed to the paint-stippled floor, onto his bruised side. At Han's curse of pain Erin Isolder's eyes widened; she placed a coquettish hand to her chest, as though he'd tried to kiss her with his indecent mouth. Then Erin looked almost impatiently at Anakin Skywalker. The man filled the threshold, blue eyes on the painting supplies. Empty canvases, charcoal sticks, paintbrushes in jars of turpentine. But when Erin frowned at him he entered, a swirl of his black coat. After he was through, the scolded thugs understood to enter, too, Crumb limping along with his jerry can.

Boba Fett did not follow, melting back into the shadows.

XXXXXXXXXX

Luke Skywalker had, as he often did, lost track of time. He was dressed in shirt and tie, under a black mandarin-collared blazer that he'd bought in Chicago for faculty mixers—professors wanted to meet Kenobi's young apprentice. No one had forgotten Ben, Luke told his mentor over the last telephone conversation they'd had before his death, and Ben gave a dusty chuckle.

Over that last call, Luke asked Ben about the first painting he ever sold. Ben explained that he and his father had collected antique electrical insulators: squat, tinted pillars of thick glass that they found along the railroad tracks. They sat on a windowsill in the Kenobi shed and subtly stained the western light. Ben had painted these curios all in a staggered line.

Luke had studied the image reprinted in the dove-gray art book he'd found among Ben's things. The image was of that first commercial success and, Luke now knew, Ben's first real work after Breha Naberrie left him. _Clone_ had quiet prettiness—yes, mere prettiness, as though the artist believed wholehearted engagement with beauty caused only pain. The insulators were painted all the same, dome after dome in delicate watercolor green. An ephemeral, exhausting refraction. According to the book's caption, _Clone_ sold for two hundred dollars, shocking for the Depression.

Beside the reprint was a black-and-white picture of young Ben on a shabby divan, wide grin lit, kind eyes crinkled. A hand was visible on Ben's leg, fingers laced with his. A tiny hand, flecked with darkness that, in black-and-white, Luke knew signified paint. Photo credit: Q.G. Jinn.

On the opposite page from _Clone_ was another work. A severe monochrome line that declared a female form, exquisitely and precisely observed but static. Pinned, like a moth. Any warmth or tenderness the work possessed was in its title: _Padm_ _é_ _Amidala_. Amidala, the middle name the twin sisters shared. Luke could feel no other sense of Padmé in the work, as a person; just the name, the empty shape of a woman. No, here was only Anakin Skywalker: ownership. Passion, gathering menace. The control in that emphatic line.

Luke looked at the artist's photograph. Looked, for the first time, on the lost face of his father. Handsome, brooding, wary, angry. Luke recognized himself; the photograph conveyed lightness of hair and eye, even a sense of shared ability. But something—a certain wit in the set of chin—looked more like Leia, though Luke resolved to not say this to her. Certainly not yet. Maybe not ever.

Like his sister—like Han, in fact—Luke was a blend of practicality and instinct. And he'd driven a ways down the hill Phil Antilles cleared, on his way to Lando's dinner, before impulse won—Luke wanted to see if Ben's insulators were still in his father's shed, after all these years. It seemed too much trouble to get R2 turned and back up the narrow, snowy road so Luke pulled way over, almost into the trees in consideration of anyone else who might want to use the single lane. He took the flashlight Han stashed in his glove compartment and doubled back on foot.

Luke didn't mind the tightening cold, the thickening eddies of snow. He left behind his coat. The cold felt clean. It was a calm night, windless. Snow-clouds glowing with moon.

Luke only intended to be a minute.

XXXXXXXXXX

Threkin Horm pulled a wooden stool to the center of the little room. The tall stool was an awkward climb with Han's hands impaired, hard to balance on with his arms bound. He knew this game; Shrike played a version. Park an offender in an unforgiving pose for hours, behaving like every comfort was being accommodated. Erin Isolder sat in Kenobi's shabby wingbacked chair as though in an opera box. Anakin Skywalker loomed to her side and slightly behind her, eyes not on Han but on Ben Kenobi's easel. Crumb and Cairo and Fortuna stationed themselves.

Horm began to pace in a theatrical courtroom style. Like that hygiene twerp that had screwed with Chewie in Korea.

"You owe us an apology," Horm began.

"Shit, Horm. Fine." Han arranged his large feet on the rungs with maximum boredom. "You can join the damn card game."

Horm pouched his lips, protuberant and stingy. Not because Horm cared so much about being rejected—though he did—but that his weakness was referenced in front of his employer. Was she even an employer, anymore? Han flicked a look at Erin Isolder, her face bright with malicious anticipation. Wasn't she some kind of...master?

"I will repeat myself. Do not make me repeat myself again." Horm was trying to talk like Anakin Skywalker, but his thin voice shook. The broad didn't dig the show so far, her fingers flexing into patched chintz armrests. "Mrs. Isolder requires an apology."

Horm was supposed to say something further. Han felt Erin Isolder waiting for it, the dialogue. But Threkin Horm just...froze, like he'd forgotten his lines. Han smiled at Erin with provocative tolerance. With a flicker of rage, Erin inclined her chin at Fortuna, glaring at Horm. Horm stepped unwillingly back, his face a picture of unctuous shame.

"Leave the face alone," Erin said.

The understudy hit Han in the stomach. Han choked, curled around his gut. Eyes squeezed shut, he didn't see Erin Isolder rise, walk towards him with a sway to her hips. But when Han looked up—when he set his shoulders back, there she was in her prim suit at the end of his knees, so close she stood almost between them.

"Now you see, Henry Solo, I planned for a Thanksgiving wedding." Erin placed her palms on Han's kneecaps. Her body language coy and her eyes crazy. "I was terribly excited. Can't you imagine? Only to find that _someone,_ " She drummed her fingers on his thighs, raising an appreciative eyebrow at their hardness. "...had absconded with my bride."

It was supposed to sound arch. But Erin's lines were tinged with self-pity: she had not been tithed her share of attention. She stood closer, now bluntly between his knees, smelling of sickly perfume over sour metal. _Shrike_. The headmaster and Erin Isolder weren't physically alike, but Han's mind insisted on the combination, or found their common denominators: rotting power, the titillated edge to their cruelty. Han had been afraid of Shrike, once. He hadn't been tough, as a little child. Who was? But Han was not afraid, now; had the chance to not be, now.

Han cycled his wrists almost lazily, stretching the tape.

Erin slapped Han's face, the ring on her finger turned inward. The giant diamond bit into his cheek; Han sucked in a breath, pleasing his captor, as though he was properly participating in his own punishment. Han absorbed another slap, feeling blood spill thin and fast.

"That's for spoiling her," Erin said, her voice reasonable and her eyes hellish.

Han couldn't keep the spike of anger from his tone. "Y'know _her_ ain't a cut of meat, right?"

Erin smoothed his tie. "Oh, Henry: you are _louche._ " _That_ was different from the old bastard, the lascivious twist to Erin's lips: enough that Han wondered, with distant revulsion, if she would kiss him. This close, her skin was unwholesomely soft, slipping over the scant meat of her face and furred with pink-tinted dust. "I can't blame Leelee. Poor little girl." Erin gave the scar on Han's chin a grotesque caress.

Something radiated from Anakin Skywalker, dark in Han's peripheral vision. _Distaste?_

The stroke turned into another slap. The diamond missing its purchase, but the smack exaggerated, straight out of a flick. Han felt a little nuts with the rising of old bitterness. To find himself back in this, half-back in the past. Chin split to jawbone by that pompous switch. Held to account for sex, stolen and fast—what did Erin think he and Leia _had,_ together? Han recognized the coiled Shrike rage, and also the prurience. Erin's smile remained.

"Problem with you," Han said, "Uh." He cocked his head. " _One of_ the problems with you—"

Erin wasn't strong enough to truly damage Han, but again the rock stuck him, tore. His upper lip twitched and he turned back to her, line of blood following the angle of his jaw, as though trying to reach his chin. His scar.

"You think you're somethin', huh," Han said, his eyes hard and slitted. "Nice people here never met someone like you." He grinned savagely. "Thing is: I have. Oh yeah, I've seen you before. Not one time neither. Over and ov—"

Erin snarled, betraying the vicious narcissism that animated her. She gestured to Fortuna, who jerked Han from the stool and to his knees on the floor. Han tried not to show his relief; now, with his hands bound behind him, his long fingers just reached the cuff of the boot that had never been checked for weapons. _Buncha dumm_ —

It was a kick to the gut, this time. Han heaved around it, did not vomit. He went deeper into boyhood, the conversion into refusal. To show pain strengthened the torturer. Han grit his teeth against her reward.

Han looked up, breathing hard; Skywalker's shadowed face gave Han nothing. But Horm was green.

Erin's command was lilting, zestful, the call of a ringmaster. "Pliers!"

Han tried to bolster himself, keep his face composed as he saw Crumb was at the woodstove, saw the long, pointed steel nose wedged in the recent embers. Crumb snatched the protruding rubber handles and hurried over, rushing his entrance, too dumb to understand that part of torture was dread. Erin's face cramped with irritation and Han felt a hard satisfaction to see it, even as his heart started to hammer. Fortuna and Cairo pulled Han to his feet, angled him to meet the sharp point of the pliers. The red-hot glow came close, closer. Threkin Horm made a wet croaking sound. His eyes electric green, Han threw him a nihilistic, breathless grin. "You gotta work on that poker fa—"

Han screamed. When the metal was pressed to his chest, poked through his sweater and shirt to cook into his skin Han broke and screamed. He broke and gave the bitch what she wanted—he hated the raw sound, he couldn't stop it—

A noise from outside drew Erin Isolder's attention. A long, metallic crash. She snapped her fingers at Cairo, then to Threkin Horm, who looked like he would be sick as he had to take over Cairo's grip on Han Solo's rigid arm and shoulder.

Cackling, Crumb dug the pliers in again. Han howled, howled.

"I thought you _liked_ tools," Erin said. "Handyman."

XXXXXXXXXX

Ben never let Luke and Leia play in his father's shop. It was falling apart, rusted metal, rotting beams and floorboards, collapsing roof. Luke was mindful now as he moved beneath the heavy open wooden gate that served as a kind of door, retracted to the ceiling by thick metal cord. The braided steel was wound around a handled industrial spool, and closer Luke smelled creosote. Shining his flashlight upward, he saw that the entire gate was made of railroad ties, oily and thick. Luke whistled. No wonder Luke had never seen the gate down, Ben would never have been able to crank it back up again alone.

In the beam of the flashlight, Luke picked out tools, on the wall a calendar from 1932. A child's tiny tin of paints, bright blue and unrusted, stamped with a robin, etched with the initials _B.N._ Luke pocketed that for Leia. Intrigued, Luke knelt to peer in the low cupboards, but caught himself. Luke knew his own galloping enthusiasm. If he didn't harness it, he'd miss dinner; he'd also just noticed he was shivering, dangerously insulated by the heat of his own interests. Luke thought of Professor Jinn: _Hone your focus._ Luke raised the flashlight above his shoulder.

There it was, just one, on the shelf below a high, grime-glazed window. The last insulator was not green, and not cylindrical, but a globe of matte white glass. Luke leaned on what was left of the wooden counter beneath the window, tested its strength. The wood felt soft, but Luke had a way of distributing his tidy frame, an uncanny sense of balance. He hoisted his body easily to the narrow surface. Luke was feeling rather pleased with himself when he put his hand to the dark shelf and brought down a stack of dishes that he had not seen. Tin. There was an almighty crash as the plates rained down like a storm of cymbals. Luke cringed, laugh-wincing as the din went on and on.

That's when he thought he heard—laughter? A woman's laughter? Luke sighed at himself, reached for the insulator. All these thoughts and talk of lost mothers had him chasing female specters. He caught the orb in his hand, looked at it close-up. It was heavier than he expected—not glass but opaque porcelain, ivory and cracked.

A sound, again, from Ben's shack.

That was no ghost. That was—

The fair hair at the back of Luke's neck prickled. Erin Isolder. And then a long harsh groan, a man's.

 _Han?_

Luke turned to climb from the counter.

A bulky shadow blocked what snow-light dully shone from the wide doorway. Luke froze, knew he was seen, marked by the beam of the flashlight in his hand. He turned it at the intruder, just as Han screamed again, a terrible ragged sound that went on and on. And the broad, cruel, mashed-in face picked out by Luke's flashlight smiled. The man crooked his finger at Luke. And in his boar eyes Luke saw every bully he'd ever known. His coming beating couldn't be clearer: a beating at best. And someone had Han.

 _Leia. Where was—_

Leering, the battered giant stepped into the doorway and paused to relish his power, relish Luke's fear. Someone had clubbed his face in tonight and he welcomed the chance to put his status to rights. Luke lifted the orb. Felt its weight in his hand, fit his fingers to its cracks as Bail Organa had taught him with the seams of a baseball.

If Leia was the catalyst of wrath, Luke was its occasional instrument. Luke let it come through him and he felt no guilt for what he did, when he threw the solid porcelain dome hard and fast. He threw it into the dark but knew it would hit, knew it the way he'd known just when to let the hurled bottle go from his fingers into the billboard. The insulator knocked the gate-winder spinning, set the heavy grid of timber groaning loose and plunging into the back of the monster's head and neck, driving him into the floor. Out, gone, his eyes dull and flat in Luke's small spotlight, jaw bent up and out at a grotesque angle. _Dead is dead,_ Han said in Luke's head.

Luke leapt down from the ledge, lithe and quick.

XXXXXXXXXX

At the corner of Han's eye, that dark shape. Anakin Skywalker had not touched him, but he had the look of someone who could put his back into torture in a way that Crumb lacked the imagination for. So it could be...worse, Han rallied himself, foggy with agony. _Could be worse._

Steps on the porch, too light and deft to be Cairo's, too patient for Boba Fett. A compact frame appeared in the shattered doorway, bell of fair hair, face that cast its own calm light. Eyes blue with spooky reckoning.

 _It's worse._

"Welcome," Erin Isolder breathed, her eyes flaring silver. "Mr. _Skywalker._ Welcome back."

Luke gazed unblinking on Erin Isolder. Beyond hatred, beyond fear, with a maddening hint of humor. Erin faltered, slightly, to see this comprehension. There was something inhuman about the way she drifted across the floor towards Luke, as though her high heels didn't quite meet the planks. Han felt some of the danger of Cloud City surge back: he was no longer responsible for solely himself. He inhaled, pulling air down his scoured throat.

"Hey!" Han called hoarsely after her. "Your son?"

Erin hesitated, her fingers giving a clawed twitch at the side-seams of her skirt. Looked back at Han, rage quickly papered over with that eerie smile. But slipping, slipping—Han could feel the madness growing, the loss of control. "He cried like a baby when I put him dow—"

She etched an order in the air with her long, white-varnished nails. Anakin Skywalker stepped to Han, some animatron. Luke raised a palm. "Father—"

The leather-gloved fist connected with Han's temple. He heard some brassy gong in his ears. _Luke's old man is made of_ _metal._

Han was enfolded in soft blackness.

XXXXXXXXXX

"Now, now: don't let him _sleep,_ " Erin trilled.

Han opened his eyes, hearing a sluggish groan. It was his own. Erin Isolder laced her ringed hand into Han's hair with revolting gentleness, pulled him up to look. Luke. Luke was on his knees, too, held by Fortuna. Being forced to look back at Han.

And for Han? The shadow was back. The thick black shadow. Han turned to greet it.


	65. Chapter 65

He chose a paintbrush. Broke a paintbrush and heated the metal band that connected fiber to wood, heated it to a sullen red. It was this Anakin Skywalker pressed to Han's skin, through the holes in his sweater and shirt. Chest hair singed and Han couldn't get away from the acrid odor, this small horror drawing his attention from the larger. Then Anakin, expressionless, turned the broken brush to the splintered end. Dug in. Han didn't want to whimper, not in front of Luke and he did it, he did, he _whimpered_.

Tears made huge reservoirs of Luke's eyes. They weren't the same color or shape as his sister's, but the grave anguish in them was like Leia's in the parking lot. Han breathed, trying to bite back the sounds that pleased the bitch, that so hurt Luke, that made him think of—oh Leia, Leia, Leia. Erin Isolder, perched again in Ben's chair, smiled. Controlling the entire scene, somehow, with her pale vision. No more window dressing around her sadism. But it was no longer the torture of Leia Organa's defiler that amused her. It was Luke's empathetic pain she watched with speculative hunger.

Anakin turned to the woodstove to withdraw a fresh brush. Stoked the fire, brought it up. And with the leaping flames, the look in Erin Isolder's eyes, Crumb seemed to sense Luke moving from novelty to target. The lifelong assistant bully, the little arsonist withdrew his book of matches from his pocket. Erin did not stop him. As Crumb lit a match, flicked it at Luke, she watched neither immediate victim—not Luke, not Han. Now she studied Anakin. And the look on her face said, _Prove it to me again._

Luke did not flinch as little sparks struck his clothes, soon winking out. He did not look at Erin or Crumb, not Fortuna, holding him fixed at the shoulders. He did not look at Han, breathing fast in the space between pain. Luke looked at his father. His face filled with his own expectation.

A match connected with Luke's knuckles; Luke hissed. Erin Isolder's head swivelled, moving between scenes, Han's and Luke's. She chose Han; the metal abraded. A growl came from Han, primitive. No longer mere suffering. She had no right to any of it, any of the lives they'd built. Him and Leia. Luke. She'd never built a goddamn thing. Even with her whole damn life and buckets of money and...

"Lady," Han sighed, as Anakin turned away again, as Han's pain abated before his anger, his adrenaline. "You need a fuckin' hobby."

"What did Erin tell you, Father?" Luke's voice had that hypnotic power again, that it had the day he'd suggested the race to Theo. "Did she tell you no bastard was good enough for Padmé Naberrie? Did she tell you they were all mocking you?"

Anakin went so still at the stove that he seemed to hum.

"That she pitied you? Some pitiful orphan?"

Here Luke gave Han the slightest apologetic look. If the situation hadn't been so abjectly fucked Han would have laughed—that damned _kid,_ tending to Han's childhood feelings when all signs screamed that they were going to die. Han couldn't reach the insight Leia had, with Theo Isolder: that it was just this kindness that empowered Luke, imbued him with his persuasive magic.

Anakin's ravaged face remained still, sealed by some process that had nothing to do with healing. Han had the sudden chilling sense of his own scar, its persistent tightness and occasional sting, the way it burned, in deep cold, from phantom nerves. Another orphan in love with a Naberrie girl. What if Han's scar had spread, wrapped itself thick and binding around his heart for good? That day Leia had sent him away. The day he said he'd do anything, anything. What if Han had been waylaid by a malicious, seductive power telling him he'd be able to keep Leia Organa forever? _Where do I sign? I'll sign in blood._

The knife. Han's fingers grazed it, closed on it, began to work it towards his palm.

"She is bankrupt," Luke said, with eerie certainty.

Erin's smile slipped from her face.

Anakin Skywalker turned to look at his son. Luke held his father's eyes, unafraid. Unconsciously Han shook his head at the kid's sheer guts.

Pale pink lipstick parted over sharp white teeth. Exposure that became a snarled order. And Fortuna took Luke's hand and lifted it so Erin could see better as he bent Luke's index finger back. Luke cried out. "Father—"

There was a snap. Han felt himself flinch, felt the knife slip just slightly back. Luke appealed in agony. "Father, please!"

Another broken finger. Luke choked it out: "Oh, Father." And now Crumb's hideous shrill laughter, a lit match pressed to Luke's neck. The sound Han heard came from himself, a frustrated whine, the pincers of his fingers closing only on themselves.

Anakin took a step towards Luke. And Erin nodded, eyes on the smoldering cord of firewood clenched in one gloved hand. _Do it,_ her face commanded. _Prove yourself._ Erin was beyond amusement now—this was punitive action. Execution.

Leia's knife smacked into Han's palm like it had flown there, summoned by dire necessity. Han's eyes stayed on Luke Skywalker, overtaken by the slow eclipse of Anakin's approach. _Don't panic. Don't panic. Don't—_ Han thought this not to Luke, but to himself; in Luke's face there was no fear. Just that baffling faith Han saw on the day they met: Luke's sureness that whatever life bequeathed him, it was right.

Anakin's heavy step, the length of wood glowing dull red.

Han thumbed a blade free and angled it to his bindings, wrists cramping. Fortuna dragged Luke to his feet. Crumb closed spindly fingers into blond hair, jerking Luke's head back. Sawing at the tape, Han's breath came high and quick. He looked swiftly at Erin Isolder, perched in Ben Kenobi's patched armchair like some empress, observing her grand sacrifice. She was solemn now, silent in the face of her ascension, new proof of her power.

Luke was breathing fast, too, but his face remained serene. Even now at peace with himself, with the will of the world, was his untouchable essence. Luke's cleft chin came up, its positioning so like Leia's and now Han knew why. The purity and defiance of their moral true north. Han felt his throat almost seal with grief. Everything accelerated; he would go faster. He would—

"Padmé loved you, Father," Luke said through his teeth, his hair dark at the tips with sweat. "You've only forgotten it." Even in agony Luke's face shone with conviction. Innate love. Compassion. Not for Anakin alone, but not to his exclusion, either. Ever. It was for everyone, everything. Despite everything.

Anakin raised the wood; Han's voice only a strangled whisper. " _Luke._ "

Anakin Skywalker swung the burning wood into Fortuna's head, and then Crumb's. Teeth flew like careless dice, blood brightened the floor's muted paint-spatter. Bodies thumped. Han recoiled. Horm gobbled a breath, ran in wobbling steps to the cabin door and out. The sound of him puking his guts out getting fainter.

Luke's face was ashen and streaked with tears, but bravely set, etched with awful trust. When Anakin stroked his son's face, it wasn't with tenderness but there was a distant, clinical wonderment. Not quite regret. As though he was seeing something in that face for the first time—perhaps his wife. Perhaps himself. Perhaps even Luke—but looking on his history, his son with his own eyes. Han wouldn't call it love, or protection. At best it was possession.

When he turned back to Erin Isolder, Anakin Skywalker's enigmatic expression curdled into hatred so intense that it registered on Han's face as heat. _Blast castoff,_ Han thought with the deaf, ringing calm of grenades lobbed in Korea. Han knew the look from years in taverns, years in the home: The face of a slave, an orphan. A man who had been cheated. The face of a man who had been stolen from.

Anakin Skywalker moved to Erin Isolder with a dragging, emphatic slowness, a thick, rasping wheeze. He dropped the wood. Of course. This job couldn't be done like that. Not at a foot's distance, not with stiff separation. This was debit of the flesh. And the clatter of stained wood to stained wood woke Erin from her protective disbelief. There was a creeping fear, on her face, possibly for the first time in her life. She'd lost the reins on this golem she'd created, bidden. Ridden all through his wretched life. When Erin rose from her seat, it was almost into his sudden grip; her neck fit in his glove as though this had all been fated. And he squeezed. Her eyes widened, then bulged. Her head took on an impossible angle, a heavy bloom nodding from the dull black gleam of fists.

 _Oh, shit,_ Han thought. _It's really gonna go like thi—_

Reflexively, Han squeezed his eyelids shut, concentrated on the blood rushing in his ears, the tug of the sticking tape against the blade. He was no saint; Erin Isolder's death was actually _welcome_ to him, but preferably offscreen. Han had endured, seen, and practised enough violence to know there was no romance in it, that even vengeance offered no lasting satisfaction. It was just ugliness, even to him, a man long since calloused, surely more inured than—

 _Luke._

Those sensitive receptors that had wrecked the old man? Luke had them too.

Han did not doubt Luke's strength, his bravery. But Luke was uniquely open to life and that made him loveable, gifted and vulnerable at once.

The tape was stretching, thinning. Han yanked, hard, his arms, his wrists. _Don't look, kid. Don't look, don't look._

But Luke _was_ looking, on his knees and staring, his eyes wide and wet-washed with shock. He seemed to be looking both outward and inward, and Han remembered Luke's grotesque necklace of bruises; was Luke locked in the memory of choking in some drab conference room? Maybe he was witnessing, now, exactly what this man was capable of. Luke's father as some freakish weapon, fully operational.

A howl rose—whether from Anakin's throat or Erin Isolder's Han would never know. But it didn't matter, it rose and sharpened and filled the tiny cabin—it may have been two hatreds combined, two twining pathologies, separate shunts into a shared poison well. The inevitable reverse of the sweet, bright force that infused Luke.

What was coming? What the fuck—Han didn't feel his restraints snapping. He found himself on his feet and moving, black tape dangling from his wrists. Seizing Luke by his jacket and not stopping.

Han hurled Luke ahead of him through the broken doorway, leaping just after. From behind them came smashing, splashing; mason jars of turpentine hurled against plank walls. A gas can upended.

XXXXXXXXXX

Just around the side of the cabin, Luke staggered. It took Han a staring moment to realize that he'd been struck. The kid got a swoony look but he didn't fall, just lowered himself carefully to the snow. Han had hauled Luke free of his father, yes, and straight into the fist of Boba Fett, meant for Han's own pricey head.

Fett advanced on Luke, incredulous that his target was wrong but also still conscious; his punch had felled some of the toughest men on the docks. Han stung with guilt and pride—that _kid,_ the damned kid, his goodness forever being dismissed as frailty. _Surprise, motherfucker._ That sweet kid was tough as old boot-leather.

Speaking of boots, and what they hid behind their hides.

The knife was still in Han's hand when he tackled Boba Fett, shoulder hard to the back of the knees. Fett went down on his face, but managed to spin in Han's grip, sitting up into the scythe of Han's elbow. Fett fell back, canny eyes glazed, and Han hit him with his fist again, again, the snow around them festive with castoff blood. Han would have killed him then, he was thinking to—not angry, even, just soldier methodology, but Luke gave a low moaning sound and Han looked up.

The cabin was roaring, now, sparks like waterfalls in reverse, pouring into the stars. Luke was weeping, his hand bent, his wet face reflecting both fire and snow. His face turned toward the heavens, turned back toward the cabin—turned to Han with such breathtaking pain that Han felt a stab of terror. _Helplessness._ Luke looked helpless, all his natural optimism lost. Helplessness could goad a man into action, Han knew, even if destructive, suicidal, because to feel powerless was such anguish.

"Lu—"

It was a second of diversion, but enough for Fett's marginal recovery. The bounty hunter brought his thumbs to the holes in Han's sweater and shirt, digging through into the raw wounds on Han's chest. He ground down like he was rolling his thumbprints in ink—sloppy, but enough to make Han howl and rear back. Fett scrambled free, rising to his hands and knees, his pantlegs bunching up as he moved; Han lunged after him, after the trail of blood, snapping the largest blade free from its slot.

Part of Han hadn't expected it to work, to be able to hurt him: such was the dock legend of Boba Fett. He was not flesh. The stories made him sound like...Jack the Ripper. Werewolf! A shapeshifting horror who disappeared into mist. But the blood said he was a man, after all. A mortal man with a bullshit van, and a bullshit job. A man who'd had bullshit choices probably similar to Han's and chosen a weak one, no guts to go after the mystery.

Leia's perfect gift wickedly unzipped the side of Fett's bare calf, almost to the ankle. The wound burst open as though from internal pressure, like the exposed innards of some gutted animal. Layers of skin, fat, hair, muscle; both Han and Fett stopped and stared, almost comically clinical. Then the white mouth of the wound welled with blood; Fett gave a guttural roar and his powerful fight instinct resolved. His good foot drove upward, hard.

 _Whuuuuuu—_

Han was brutally reminded that he was a man, too.

—- _nnnnguuuhhh._

Han crumpled to the snow around his groin. Felled by the classic Corell Home move, one Han himself had eschewed as beneath him. Han refused to rely on a boot to the balls to take anyone down, though he'd always remembered it was a threat, there. But in the civilized world, Han had forgotten to defend against it—in the Army it was unthinkable to go after a guy that way—and even Theo Isolder hadn't considered the tactic. Yet here it was, here it was again, that bastard finishing move and as Han curled around himself he felt a grudging respect for Fett for delivering it. Almost a baleful kinship, as though he'd been spoken to in some ruthless, rare dialect.

Han writhed against the grinding agony in the pit of his belly, the sick flipside of those tortured early kissing sessions with Leia. _That_ ache, sweet underneath. This was nauseating fire spreading from balls to gut and wanting up, up.

 _Up._

 _Get up._

 _Luke. Fett could still—_

Wavering to all fours, trying not to puke, Han raised his head and saw that Boba Fett had had enough: on one leg he was escaping at a rushed, ungainly shuffle. He'd almost made it to the ring of trees, leaving a thick, uneven trail of blood. Not ideal—Han would happily see Fett dead—but to have the notoriously lethal fixer scared for his life, _scarred_ for life, made Han feel pleasure as mean and searing as the agony in his crotch.

 _Run, you fucker._

Han spit hot copper after his opponent.

 _Better run forever._

Seething pain through his teeth, Han rose on his knees, thrusting the bloody blade of his knife into the snow, then wiping it hard through the folds of Lando's shredded wool sweater. He'd never let it rust, the gift that had saved his life, Luke's. _Thanks, Sweetheart._ He trusted it to see him home, somehow, him and Luke. A beacon connecting Han to his wife.

XXXXXXXXXX

Han loosened his own tie, worked at the knot in Luke's. Pulled both loose. Grabbed the flattest slat he could find on the logpile. Shucked his coat, ripped off Lando's old sweater, stuffed it with snow, bound it with its own sleeves—it would melt too fast but there was no time to hunt for ice. Placed Luke's mangled hand as gently as he could at speed into the cold compress, then bound the whole mess, with the neckties, to the wood. Luke, lapsed into near-absence, mumbled in pain at this makeshift splint. Draping his peacoat over Luke's shoulders—according to Han Solo's personal triage, Luke needed it most; Luke was in shock. Han was just _hurt_ —Han muttered back _Sorry, kid._

Not for the crude first aid, or for what Luke had just seen. Han apologized for what they had to do next.

And somewhere could be Cairo, yet.

XXXXXXXXXX

Clouds tore away in ragged veils, leaving the cold disc of the moon, punched in the black fabric of the night. That's no moon, Leia thought, that's a portal, and beyond it a world of white light.

Just past the Alder Glen exit. Her eyes huge and sure in her still white face.

"We've got to go back," Leia said.


	66. Chapter 66

After checking the ignition for abandoned keys, Han slashed Boba Fett's tires. The Caddy was gone; Horm must have cleared out. In no universe was Han Solo concerned about Threkin Horm—he didn't have the jam to torture a guy or draft an evil marriage contract worth a damn, let alone drive himself through treacherous conditions—but there was no way Han was leaving Fett a way out. No word getting back to Hutt.

He asked Luke where he'd left the R2. Luke waved an almost drunken hand somewhere down the hill. The car was not in sight; not a great sign, meant it was pretty far down, around the bend in the road. Han squinted, pulling cold air through his teeth, trying to sharpen his mind. Should they walk the longer, but plowed distance to the car, try to drive into town? The snow was coming down, and Luke was in no condition to help Han push the car from the shoulder if it was stuck. On the other hand, the way through the woods to his and Leia's cabin was much shorter, but through deep, untouched snow.

Looping Luke's arm around his neck, his own arm about Luke's ribs, Han began to wade him through the thickening drifts. Toward the woods, past Ben's shed. And there Han stopped short at the sight of the huge corpse pinned beneath some...dungeon gate. Cairo's body, dusted with snow. Flooding with relief, Han looked down at Luke, pale under his arm. He'd always respected the kid, but this—shit. There was one hell of a steely side to all Luke's sweetness.

XXXXXXXXXX

At the mouth of the woods, the snow didn't seem a threat; it looked like vanilla ice cream, like the fresh white sheets Leia stretched on their bed. Surely not like the horror they'd just escaped—next to that, the smooth, untouched expanse was benevolent. Even...heavenly, sparkling intermittently in the brief touch of moonlight. So Han felt it anew with each long step: the frustration and dissonance of its obstruction. Every heavy movement caused a fissure in his confidence, and through these cracks seeped fear.

But by then it was too late to second-guess, and anyway there was nothing for it. They were underway, now, Luke stumbling in snow up to his thighs. Fighting him, some. Luke kept trying to stop, to fall on his knees, to look back to where smoky coral lit the sky. Han dragged him along, close to the hip. Luke struggling, delirious: _Father, Father, Father_. _There's still good—Let me go, Han, let me go let me—_

"Can't do it, kid," Han muttered.

Deeper into the woods, far enough that the white-flecked firs blocked out the sky, Luke wept silently, steadily. But the feelings meant the kid was still himself, that he persisted, that he had not gone catatonic. And he still walked. Han planted one long leg after the other. One, two. He would not think any further. He would not think with longing of his wife, of her welcoming shelter, the warmth of her body over his, around his, under. Of homecoming to her. No: just one step, and then another.

It bolstered Han to remember that he had trained for this. Even unconsciously, he had trained for this—wasn't that what was all his exercise was for, the army routines he'd kept up when Chewie didn't, when Lando didn't. Every morning, quick sets of push-ups and sit-ups on the plank floor of the loft; heavy lifting at the hangar, kneeling, rising under engine blocks. In the better weather, runs through these very woods, chin-ups from these very branches.

 _Raise the dead? Nah let 'em die. The rest of us, we stay alive._

How powerfully Han had related to that soldier call-and-response when he was a boy of eighteen. _Let 'em die._ He'd thought the trick to survival was solitude. The name _Solo_ was no longer shameful, then, no longer a badge of unwantedness but a rough shield; his aloneness converted into bleak reassurance. _Bad news, Solo: you've been abandoned,_ said his unconscious wryness at a young age. _Good news is? It'll never happen again._

The toe of his boot caught on some root, buried beneath the snow. Han almost went down—Luke groaned at the abrupt pull. But Han got back up. Always, he got back up. He excelled in army endurance tests: Lando always said Han was just too contrary to quit but Han knew it was more than that—secretly he was fuelled by the chants, by feet hitting tarmac in staccato time. _Let 'em die._ He could get lost in the thumping of boots and pulse, he could finally feel one with something. Calisthenics, running—training was the was the only part of conformity that ever appealed to Han: to feel a piece of some clean, firing machine, of the shared voice that guided the flex of legs, the expansion of lungs. Until all was obliterating cyclic grace that freed him from other, otherwise inescapable rhythms: punches in combination. Nickel buttons clicking on each revolution of an industrial laundry drum. Sex hid between ticking hands of a clock. Later, the smug snap down of a winning hand. The rolling walk adapted to a shifting dock. Stacking crates of contraband.

Run. Run. Shifting gears. It was a kind of peace, even the inevitable pain in muscles and lungs a drive into welcome oblivion.

The exercise wasn't vanity—well, not entirely, though maybe a little now he'd caught Leia watching him, sometimes. But mostly it was preparation, vigilance. The test: Chewie had been right. _Go into the woods and confront the truth of yourself._

XXXXXXXXXX

Luke stumbled, almost to his knees. With several fast, lunging steps, Han waltzed Luke through his stagger.

"I won't blame you," Luke said, with such compassion that Han felt a surge of horrified grief, as though the worst had already happened.

"Shuddup, kid."

Han's arm tightened on Luke, felt his hard breathing. Luke was still living. This was still living. Han's thoughts returned to that night in the rowboat with Leia, the summer night that some part of himself had known he loved her. The night he'd looked into the thrum of the stars, felt his own—not insignificance, no. What Han felt was his adoption into a perfect celestial system, a rightness so seamless as to erase him. It was not death. That night on the lake the stars whispered something to him. That he was a part of something in spite of himself, in spite of his name. And it was not death. It was invitation. Invocation of love, the choice between fear and life.

The stars were so clear that night. Not like now, obscured in dove-gray cloud that was opaque when regarded straight-on, but glowing out of the corner of the eye. No stars to read, no star to follow. Just this elusive radiance. Silently, Han ordered his feet to move faster. His shoulder was starting to scream but he dared not move Luke to the other arm, dared not disturb what fragile rhythm Luke could maintain.

"She'd forgive..." Luke trailed off and looked to his left, into the soft, dark woods with an expression of near-longing that Han didn't like one bit. Han felt an odd sense of betrayal, or—a swindle. Luke had no right to think, to talk like this when it was him who had said to Han, _there is something more_ —more to Millie, more to war. A grace. A force.

Luke looked straight at Han, his cloudiness gone, those blue eyes clear and unafraid. "Han. She can't lose us both. She won't be able to bear—"

"Christ, kid!" Han barked. "Have a little _faith_."

And then both men laughed at their reversal, breathless steam. Heads falling together. Laughed faster to know neither needed the humor explained. But it was the truth, Han thought as his breath resolved to pain in his working lungs, his wounded chest. He felt it again as he moved, the weird peace, the effort and exaltation of the body working to amplify the rhythms of the heart. There was nothing like it—not even sex. Well, not sex as it was _then._

"Ain't leavin' you out in this shit. That is final, kid. That is _it._ " Han's order had a kind of military harshness, rifle-stock beat. Han tried it now: legs up, legs down. _You'n me, kid. We stay alive._

XXXXXXXXXX

 _Raise the dead._ Han wondered now, had the other guy had it? The boy he'd found in his sights, his own rifle trained on someone on Han's side of the line. The other sniper. Had he had his own meter to set resilience to? If not a chant, he'd surely had the track of his own plans, his own wants. The mental door-knock of his own secrets. The private routines of his own days.

Han carried his share of grudges and hatreds, likely more. But at nineteen he'd never killed anyone before. Not wanted to, even. Not the bullies in the home, not Shrike himself, and not the guy he'd actually shot. Had the other soldier lived, or died? Han's gut said it was bad, but that same gut had forced him to turn away before he knew for sure, to kneel and retch into the snow. So...? He'd lain awake in the past trying to decide, but the truth was Han did not know, he never _would_ know, no matter how many ways he turned it over like a stray gear in his fingers. He'd never know. Just like he'd never know his own father.

XXXXXXXXXX

Han's feet had begun to weave, steps weaker under the weight of him and Luke.

Luke was begging, now. Not verbally, but in the near-swoon of his failing body. He'd hit his mangled hand in its clunky splint against himself a few times through their jerky, plunging steps, and now a corporeal vigilance showed in the way he held it away from his own body. The bracing against his own pain was exhausting and Luke kept closing his eyes, hanging heavy on Han's shoulder. _Ben, Ben._ The kid's teeth were clenched against the plea: put him down. Settle him in the snow. Han knew too well how easy it would be, to let them rest. Another thing Luke had said, once: that heaven was your happiest memory. How good, how good to sink into these banks and run the precious mind-films Han had of Leia until he fell asleep. Until he fell through life into one sweet loop. What memory would he wake into, Han wondered, his eyes on his boots, proving to himself his feet were still moving somewhere under snow. _Leia._ All the light in the world in her face when she said his name.

His name.

XXXXXXXXXX

The Corell Home whisper, the nasty hiss. The sentence that this ward of the state had heard since that first night in his strange, hard cot. The child shinnied the bars, up and out, his athleticism triggered by desperation. Desolately wandered a cold hallway, past plaster statues of a blank-eyed mother who was not his own. His own gentle mother not anywhere, nowhere her arms, her accented voice. _You wear the_ _crown of stars, my love_. He didn't know what that expression meant, only that it declared all to be right, all to be peace and warmth and safety. That corridor had ended in a slap to the face, the first of his life.

He'd blinked with the wrongness. His mother never. His Mam. Where—

The boy began to cry, or he hadn't truly stopped, and then the ringing clout to the ear which knocked him flat, struck him profoundly tearless.

The voice of Headmaster Shrike: _You will amount to nothing, Henry Solo._

All his young life, more punishments for smuggling food, fighting, smarting off. Might as well get what he could get: there would be violence no matter what because that was what the old man liked. And there was something in his face, something in the boy's face that Shrike had hated, which whetted his spite. That last time, when he was caught with Patricia, he'd heard it again, during the beating that marked his chin. _You will amount to nothing._ And Henry Solo _hadn't_ amounted to anything other than print on official documents: orphanage admittance form, driver's license, army records, marriage certificate. Some bureaucrat would use this name to mark his death.

But not in the Home. Not in Korea, not on the docks, and not tonight. Not tonight. He was one man on paper. But in the flesh—in the flesh, as a man? He wasn't Henry Solo.

He was Han.

XXXXXXXXXX

"Father." Luke had a wheeze to his voice. "Father, father..."

"C'mon, kid. C'mon, Luke, just a little bit farther."

Did his own father know of him? Han would never know that, just as he would never know what became of the boy he shot. _You're alive._ Han's mind-voice told him, long ago. _That's all you're gonna get from him._

But now Han thought, great big body working to capacity, that _alive_ was something. Damn it, it was. Wasn't it something? Wasn't there a gift in here somewhere, better than any baseball glove, any new car? No surname, no home, no money, no family but goddamn it _legs,_ long fingers to reach a knife, racehorse lungs and broad shoulders. And tonight, this birthright was going to keep them alive, bring them back to Leia. Whether or not his father's heart maybe beating on somewhere, anonymous and oblivious to his son, housed in a body just like Han's in its strength and height and breadth.

Han had this: the right to his own life. He had a right to his wife. To brotherhood. His work, his home, his hopes. He had a right to love, and be loved. To need, and be needed. To make a life, make all sorts of things with Leia: love and mistakes, a home and a life and fancy-ass sentences and stuff from metal and wood and what the hell, the world's most stubborn baby if they wanted. Han Solo wanted it all. Everything. He was out to win the whole pot and anyone telling him the odds could fuck off. Han's own heart was his and it beat for Leia and it would not stop. Not tonight, not yet—let it stop another night, far from now, in her arms. His resilient heart a declaration. The defiance and divinity of going on living.

XXXXXXXXXX

Han fell in the snow. Got up, collected Luke. Fell again.

A memory, stored not in the mind but in the body, triggered by the clumsy rise-and-fall, fail, resume. _Come along, Han._ The voice was lilting, musical, not American. Soft, steerage class. The voice that named him, coronated him with constellations. _These are your first steps._

 _Jaina._ Smiling under green eyes, sandy tumble of hair. Jaina, and once Han had walked toward her across some rough tenement floor, risen and fallen and risen—chanced it, bravely, into her laughing embrace.

Just as suddenly as Han was visited with the memory, it was lost to him. Just as well: he couldn't go back. But he went forward knowing, somewhere, that Jaina loved him. He'd always thought, in some secret part of himself, that he'd ruined her life. But Han heard it in her voice, felt it when he reached the winner's circle of her arms, chirping, crowing _Ma ma ma_. And then she was gone. And again Han had to move on. Leave her, always, and move on.

XXXXXXXXXX

Luke's eyes were closed, that sunny face overcast. At first Han thought Luke was turned away from his own pain—he'd seen wounded guys do that. But this was different. Luke was getting inside it. Han thought Luke was absent but in fact the kid was present, more present than ever, a radio antenna. Silent waves thrummed from him, ephemeral, powerful—Han could almost hear them as surrounding sound. Yes, Luke was an antenna. Both transmitter and receptor. And Han must be fading because he felt it, now, buffeting him, waves of—

Luke, of...of Leia. Of himself, only amplified. The kid's eyes were half-lidded and distant. He was murmuring to himself, unintelligible. Some prayer?—but then Han heard the name. _Leia. Leia, hear me._

XXXXXXXXXX

When Han saw her he thought it was another dream. And he almost swore. He almost cursed her as false, an apparition. Dangerous siren: _lay down with me, lay down._ No, no, no, no: Han didn't want a gossamer vision of Leia, thin and fleeting. He didn't want to live with a substitution, not even in heaven, her-not-her. No, he wanted _her_. Here, on Earth. The spirited, brilliant, kind, angry, quick-tongued woman. Han Solo wanted Leia Organa, whole and sweet and fiery. He would not accept her memory.

She called his name and her voice was ragged and loving and absolute. Ah, his name. No, no. Han turned his face away to resist.

And...Han blinked. This wasn't. This was not. This wasn't any of the utopian scenarios he'd conjure for her, that the angels would pull from his flagging heart to comfort him with. It wasn't Leia in their armchair, or under his arm, driving in Millie. It wasn't a flickering mind-movie, pearly-lit and dreamy, of Leia, laughing, in their bed. Yeah, _yeah,_ it would be the moments just after. Skin to skin, heart to heart, catching their breath, heartbeats cascading over one another.

Han squeezed his eyes to clear them of their gathering mist.

When he opened them again, she was still there. And would his heavenly impostor Leia be struggling furiously towards him, face streaked with freezing tears, eyes wide on the place in the sky that screamed of fire? Is that how Han would choose to see her forever? Leia moving through snow near to her waist, Chewie at her side, both burdened with blankets and what looked like...old _fur coats?_

And even accepting that Han would want to see Chewie in the afterlife, there was no way—no way—Han forgave his old friend as soon as he saw Leia was safe. But still: there was no such thing, in Han Solo's heaven, as a dream- _Lando._

Han gave a hoarse, sobbed laugh, almost fell on his face. Driven, gutsy, beautiful _girl._

XXXXXXXXXX

The baying of bloodhounds, Madine's shout of triumph. Bundled in Chewie's van as it flew down the highway to the Mantell Hospital, him and Leia, Lando and Luke all huddled under blankets and furs for warmth, Han grinned his relief. So much for the fearsome Boba Fett.


	67. Chapter 67

Han awoke on his back with a start. Completely and all at once, between a blanket and the taut quilt. His wife's arm flung across his waist.

He held her, for a long while he held her, eyes squeezed shut, lips pressed tight to keep back his thanks. Finally Han kissed her head slipped from her arms, unable to stand the metallic painkiller tang on his tongue. Leia didn't quite wake, but in the dark she sighed her protest. He stroked a hand over Leia's chestnut braids until he felt her sink again to sleep.

He stood gingerly, expecting the dizziness, ache, fatigue that had followed his rescue of Chewie and the relay race. There was none. Han began to shiver, but at a quick look downward he quirked an eyebrow; except for the gauze on his chest, he was naked in the chilly air. Not bothering with clothing he went downstairs.

For the second time in as many days, Han met his reflection in the oval bathroom glass. His left temple was marbled black and purple, dead blood pooled on the ledge of his brow. Han's right cheek bore several notched clusters, the pattern of Erin Isolder's diamond. Another ugly bloom spread from left hip to the bottom of his ribs. His muscles felt hot and tight from their trial in the snow. And under his bandages, injured nerves roused themselves from the last of the Darvocet. He smelled of iodine, adrenaline and sweat.

Han filled the sink with hot soapy water and washed, avoiding his bandages as best he could. By the end of his chore the burns hurt like hell from the pull of his arms, yet Han was thrilled: he'd made off like Dillinger outta this deal. Leia upstairs, safe and asleep. Luke battered but okay, tucked up in the hospital; they'd see him today. Chewie. Everyone else. Terrible enemies gone forever. Boba Fett brought down by Madine's bloodhounds; in the mirror Han saw a brutish smile at that, widening further at the thought of Threkin Horm in the interrogation room. Han doubted Fett would talk—though who knew, he hadn't exactly lived up to the legend—but Horm would warble like Ricky Nelson. Madine was gonna get his dream of nailing Jeb Hutt after all. Han's grin faded in awe: they were free of Jeb Hutt, free of Erin Isolder, free of Anakin Skywalker forever. He laughed, a little, through his mouthful of Crest, feeling sore and reborn. He would have whistled on his way up to the loft, but he hadn't wanted to wake Leia up.

But Leia was awake: lying on her side, pale shoulder emerging from the blanket, her big eyes almost black in the near-dark. Han paused in the doorway to smile at her, to record the image of her there, but she extended her arms to him. He crossed the floor and moved under the coverlet Leia raised, on his side facing her, gathering her bare form closer, heedless of his wounds. Leia pressed kisses to the space between Han's collarbones. With her lips she tried to cancel the bruising on his face. There was a reckoning to Leia's ministration, in the trembling of her slender fingers along Han's jaw, throat, shoulders. She stroked his abdomen, carefully south of the clean cotton swathing his chest. "You came back," Leia said into Han's skin—not with surprise, no, but with searing vindication nonetheless. Han didn't answer, just pulled slightly away, tucking his chin to look down at her. His eyes were shaded with the faintest fond impatience; was there a doubt?

They connected in a kiss that was no less heated for being delayed. In Han's scent, his taste, Leia rediscovered herself, like she'd left some essential part with him in trust. Every urgent touch issued what they had almost lost. Into their kiss Han mumbled endearments, promises; Leia inhaled, exhaled her thankfulness. He couldn't wait. His mouth roved Leia's temple, cheek, chin, neck; he half-vanished under the blanket to her breasts, soft lips and hard hands sending jolts all through her. Then her navel and lower still, along her belly, hand at her hip drawing her closer. Gently Han shouldered her thighs open. Leia caught her breath at the hot, seeking pressure, hands raking into his hair. Her eyes closed; she almost let herself fall into where he wanted to take her, shuddering at his hum of pleasure— _oh_ —but no. Not that, not now. It felt too singular, somehow. With her fingers at his jawbone, Leia nudged Han back to her.

The winter fever Leia feared for him had not appeared, but Han's pulse, running hard in harness with hers, left his skin hot to the touch. Left him hot and straining against her belly. As she took him in her hand Leia tightened her leg at Han's waist, kissed his mouth open until he made that sound. Not a sigh, not a groan or growl but all of these, some hybrid marker unique to Han. A weaving of want and defencelessness that Leia craved, forever wanted to provoke in him. The word broke in her mind: _Further._ Leia steered Han to his back, centering herself above him.

The loft had brightened; it wasn't dawn, but the fist of night had loosened its grip. In this indigo light their eyes met and fixed. Han's left hand spanned Leia's back, thumb dividing her shoulder blades, little finger fit to sumptuous bend of spine. His right stole to her still-looped braids, working there with tender speed; Leia heard the ring of thin steel combs on hardwood floor, saw the flare in Han's eyes as her hair unravelled, fell. His palm trailed to her cheek; his breathing increased, large lungs filling, torso an erratic bellows between her thighs. Feeling Han's body beneath her—the strong, wounded, stubborn form that had been returned to her, returned his soul to her, returned her brother—Leia blinked back sudden, ferocious grief.

The palm at her back, the hand at her cheek each curled to caress. Leia brought her fingers to his bruised face; Han's eyes became the lamplight yellow that always heralded his awareness of her pain. He gave a small, sharp shake of the head, a burr in his chest that meant _No, Princess._ Still Leia burned, vengeful and sorry, but the wonder and fact of him made her mindful of last night's pact with fate. He was living, real, here; Han Solo was here, home. Hers alone. He was, he _was,_ he was. _Yes._ So instead of crying Leia rose on her knees and took Han inside, slow and slick and merciless.

Han gave a hoarse groan as Leia met his hips with her own, her wince that betrayed their time apart melting into fulfilment. Stunned at her heat, at her sweet severe grip, Han watched his hand fall from Leia's cheekbone, clutch at air; hit the quilt beneath him and constrict there, distorting the stitched pattern. Leia held herself in check for a perfect, agonizing breath, restricting herself from pressing against his injured chest. Then she hovered closer, her hair falling around them; when Leia rolled against him Han swore in shock into her kiss. He set Leia to gentle remove so he could see her, so he could fill his coarse palms with her breasts. Tracing their shape, sighing at their weight. Making her hiss as he trapped a pink crest in his fingertips. Han watched Leia move, lids heavy over ravenous olive eyes, and returned a devout hand to her face.

And Leia watched Han, vulnerable and fervid on the chevron quilt, his skin violet in the lifting dawn.

With a hand at his shoulder she angled herself closer, concentrated into an insistent rhythm. Lifting his chin to the ceiling Han gasped, pushing his heels and shoulders into the mattress. His expression of dreamy heat shifted with endearing speed into denial, some strict internal admonition to himself. _Not yet, not yet._ Yet Han's signs were unmistakable: soft bowing of that almost sullen mouth, a tightening in the saddle of his thighs. Her own still rising, and Leia knew she wasn't going to get there herself, not this time. But it was all right, they were together at the radiant heart of their closeness, and that knowledge drove a vital circulation of Leia's own. She did not want to slow down—oh, Leia so loved Han's quickened breath, his arch of back; most of all the starved rapture in his eyes. The properties of Han Solo's peaking were nearly as bewitching and known to Leia as to him. But she understood they were unwelcome to Han so soon, and indeed he began to writhe underneath her, biting his lips, trying to withstand her.

At last Han's low voice broke the blue silence: "Leia. I'm gonna." His tone unsteady, entranced, mournful. "You're gonna make me—"

"It's all right," Leia's own voice was zephyr-soft, even as she spurred him with her inner thighs. "It's all right, Han, let go, let it..."

"I, ah: _ah._ Nnuuuuhhh—" Han's eyes fell shut, fawn lashes fanning. He forced them half-open. Frowning. "I want you—"

She leaned down to kiss him."I want _you._ "

Frustrated consonants escaped Han's throat even as his desperate grasp urged her faster, closer, even as his eyelids began to flutter. He bridged beneath her. Instead of relieving the tension by riding Han upwards, Leia seized the iron headboard and resisted, backing him down, hearing herself cry out at the flare of sensation. His own sound came broken, ecstatic, reproachful. Breathing fast, Leia beamed at him, loving and ruthless.

Shuddering with need so brutal he could no longer endure it, Han sat up, bandages and bruises be damned. Left forearm clamping around Leia's waist, right hand braced on the mattress, Han surged up, up, raw and helpless, in a thrilling arrhythmia. Leia released the headboard for the knotting planes of Han's broad back, hands flattening and clutching with each flex. Set her forehead to his, met his shy and fierce eyes, whispered her love and invitation.

Han gripped Leia's hips, held her hard to him, choked some phrase of pain and praise. When his face burrowed in her neck Leia pressed her cheek to his hair, swaying on his ebbing waves, closing her stinging eyes. Han was in her arms, shaking, cursing here in her arms, alive. Leia stroked the damp strands at the back of his neck as Han slowly returned to himself.

He became aware, first, of his hand in her hair. Cupping her head, Han leaned back to look at her; Leia smiled back, her breathing frayed. She looked joyful, mischievous, turned on, in love, but not nearly pink enough for his liking. _Fuck._ God knew he'd tried to outlast her. But look at her, Han implored himself, _look_ at her: the love in her eyes, her plumped ruby mouth; wavy hair, her wicked switchback curves. The way she _felt,_ moved, how he felt for her? Christ! Han was lucky he'd made it as long as he did.

But still, he—well. Han hated to fail Leia. Today, of all days. Their big reunion? First time in ages? After they almost _died?_ He kissed the secret spot behind her ear, murmuring inarticulate remorse.

"No," Leia forbade him. "Han. No." She rested her forehead on his shoulder. "I just need to be close to you."

"Me too, but." He heaved a sigh that prickled the skin under her hair. "Don't seem fair."

Leia thought, then, of something her mother had once told her and Luke, when they had their crayons out at the kitchen table. Now Leia knew why Breha had looked faraway and sad as she said it. _Colors don't have to match—they just need to be right together_ _ **.**_

To study him better, Leia leaned back against Han's embrace. Smiled softly at his hangdog look. "Oh, Han. If it was only _that_ —"

"You say it like..." Han interrupted. "Like you don't even care if you—" His mind took over from his mouth, ran explicit evidence from other precious sessions where he hadn't...let Leia down. She cared, alright.

Leia's sable eyes searched his. "You're not a machine."

Han lowered himself back to his elbows with a self-mocking scoff. "Yeah, like you'll have no use for me if I can't get you o—" He trailed off, thinking of an earlier life of flawless technique and little warmth. Leia looked down at him, watching whatever scrolled across his face, her smile safe, patient. Han closed his eyes, tracked his slowing heart. Protected by blindness, he held up a hand. "I _never_ thought that." Han's palm fell back to her thigh with a soft slap that seemed to wake him. "I never... _thought_ that."

Leia stroked his cheek. Han ran a hand up her side, following her delicious swells and hollows. Higher still, he stroked her hair behind her ear.

"Thing is, Leia, you're so damn—you're up there, and you're _so_..." Han's eyes went cloudy and hot and transported. "Hell, Sweetheart, I just...couldn't."

"I want us to be real together."

"Yeah." Han watched his thumbs sketch the undersides of Leia's wonderful breasts. He cast a sly look at her from under his lashes. "I just like it when it gets really...real. For you. Like when you kicked—"

Leia's eyes flared; pink rushed into her face. "Han! That was _one time._ "

"Oh, I know it well, Princess," Han intoned. He tapped his temple; his smile flashed wicked. "Got it right up here." Leia sternly kissed Han's forehead and shifted off him. He sighed at the loss and put his hands on her waist to coax her to stay close.

"Look, I know you dig me anyway." Han waved a hand as though Leia _digging him_ was an unavoidable byproduct of their own existence. She snorted. He grinned at her, then tugged her closer, down upon his chest, still caring nothing for his wounds, until she couldn't see his face anymore. "But I...c'mon, Leia," Han's voice in her hair was hopeful. "You get me, right? It's, when you—"

He stopped. Leia understood it in how his hands ran over her back—this was not ego, not masculine strut. Han needed confirmation that all he felt was shared. Leia leaned up to fit her kiss around his plump lower lip. Kissed him deeper, drew his tongue. When she pulled back, Han's eyes were slow to open, brows bunched in blissful relief.

She sat up again. "Yes. It's best that way. Of course." Leia looked at him frankly. "Of course. But it's all...it all adds up, Han, it's _all_..." She widened her beautiful eyes. "Cumulative closeness."

Nodding slowly, Han looked away—Leia brought him back with a palm to his cheek. Running her fingers over his level shoulders, she raised an eyebrow. "So. However will you make it up to me?"

Sitting up and linking his fingers at her lower spine, swinging Leia softly side to side, Han beamed at her, sheepish, bruised and...oh, _blushing_. "Chewie's not comin' to take us to see Luke till eleven." Leia sat closer, nodding, settled her elbows on his shoulders, and kissed him again.

Their bellies rumbled against one another and they laughed. More proof of life.

XXXXXXXXXX

"We need a tray," Han grumbled as Leia plucked plates from his forearms, setting down glasses and mugs. But he didn't really mind, shucking the thermals he'd worn to cook in and getting back into bed with his wife, shedding her own robe. He grinned to see the gusto with which Leia attacked her eggs before they'd even settled against their piled pillows. "Little tornado." He grinned around his toast. "Guess if I'd seen this I wouldn't'a thought you—"

Han caught himself, not wanting to steer their happiness into some ditch. But Leia sipped her creamy coffee with a sigh of relief. She ate awhile longer before she answered, her voice even.

"You don't need to worry, Han. I read my pill packet front to back. Before we ever even had—"

"Yeah, I know, I." Han rubbed the back of his neck. "I'm not _worried_. It was just the only thing I heard that seemed. Uh,"

"I take it at the same time every day. I never miss one." Leia arched a fine brow. "Would you like to discuss some of the science?"

Han laughed, casting his eyes fondly to the ceiling, and slotted bacon into his mouth.

"Failure rates, complications..."

Smile closed over his chewing, Han shook his head.

"...time you need to be off it if you _want_ to get—"

Han captured her hand. Leia looked at him, startled. He was startled too. Swallowing, he frowned down at their intertwined fingers, then looked seriously into her face. "What if we do? Want to. _Get._ "

Leia opened her mouth, closed it. Made rarely speechless. Her eyes dropped unconsciously to their nakedness.

"Hey, I don't mean _now,_ " Han said, raising her knuckles to his teeth, nibbling with reassuring silliness.

It wasn't scornfully that Leia reminded Han of his longstanding fear of fatherhood, but she wasn't hesitant either. Han dropped a shoulder, snagging the glass of juice from the bedside table. He drank half, dragged his forearm across his mouth.

"Sure, I'm scared. Think I wasn't scared of you? And you're the best thing ever happened to me." Han swallowed the rest of his juice, oblivious to Leia's glow of pleasure at his casual tribute. He wagged a finger. "I _am_ talkin' someday, mind. I meant what I said yesterday: we'd've handled it okay. But it could be better..."

Han assumed the particular, contained look he got when concentrating—sketching angles, calculating dimensions. Leia almost laughed to realize that Han was blueprinting parenthood. Of course he was.

"Um." Leia leaned over him to stack their empty dishes on the bedside table. Han stroked her arched bare back, then turned her, collected her in his lap. He bent a long leg behind Leia's shoulders for her to lean against, tugging blankets around them. Leia settled in his warmth, then glanced at him, resumed her train of thought. "Han. You said people were crazy, to have children. You said parents fail."

"I meant," Han said airily, leaning back to weave a long arm through the bars of the headboard, wincing slightly at the tug of bandage on chest hair. Leia considered the discrepancy in his tolerance—that this small pain registered when Han was almost indifferent to larger abuses; remembered his immunity to his wounds in her arms. "I meant, deadbeats."

"Deadbeats? That's not what you said. You said _all of them_."

"And fuckups."

"Oh, of course. Right," Leia said dryly, then pointed a familiar lecturing finger. "Hey Luke. Keep a rubber in your damn wallet." Han couldn't help but laugh; Leia had an odd talent for mimicry. "Keep _two._ "

"We were workin' on his car." As though this explained everything.

Leia's drawl went on. "Kid, you gotta go through life unencumbered."

" _Unencumbered_." Squinting, Han jutted his chin to scratch his stubble. "That sounds like somethin' I'd say." Han dropped his buttressing knee suddenly, and Leia fell back; he caught her as she yelped, tickling her ribs.

"Yes you did! Practically." Leia twisted away, laughing in triumph. "When Shara got pregnant!" Now Leia's pointing finger was her own, the checkmate of a prosecuting attorney. "Not me, boys. Ohhhh no. Not _that._ Nope nope noooooope..."

"Aaah- _haaaa._ " Han raised her upright again with his leg, sweeping a hand over his pained grin. "Always wondered if you heard all that."

They smiled at one another. "Where is this idea coming from?" Leia asked more gently, running a finger over the stout line of his wrist to the hand resting on her waist. "You have dreams, Han."

"Well." Taking hold of the headboard again, Han looked thoughtful. "I got a home. I'll get my truck back quick. I have friends, work, I—" His eyes lit. "Leia. Get this: Doc wants me to start flying lessons!" Han laughed as though such favor from the universe was absurd. "My _dreams,_ Princess? This jerk of yours is dreamin' overtime."

Delighted for him, Leia leaned to kiss his laughing face. Then she sat back against his long thigh, into a thought. "Yesterday, when you said you would..." Leia shook her head. "You were going to give up _flying,_ because I, because you thought I was—"

"Not _give up._ " Han squirmed under her, uncomfortable with the hero edit. "Postpone."

She kissed his wrist, releasing him from admission of sacrifice. Han shifted his hips, sat up straighter. Not carefully, Leia noticed—other than superficial damage, Han was all right, even cavalier. He traced the curve of Leia's waist under the knitted blanket. His eyes, sea-green, returned to hers. "Never wanted _anything_ like I want you. So if you want a kid, someday? Sure. We'll have a kid, too."

Sinking her hand into his mussed hair, Leia drew Han into a long kiss, then leaned back, sighing. He followed her, ducked to kiss her neck, lazily.

"I don't know if I..." Leia said slowly. "Now I don't know if I have the right pieces, for that."

"Right pieces?" Han huffed laughter against her clavicle. "'Course you do. _I'm_ the nickel screwbag."

 _Nickel—what?_ Leia pushed him back, gave him a look both imploring and exasperated—even almost hurt on his behalf. Was that some kind of slang for bastard? Han relented. "I ain't raggin' on myself. I thought some, out there. Last night." He tried to explain, already knowing he could not. "You, me. Being alive."

"I'm glad that man is dead," Leia burst out. "That's it. Relieved." She sat up from her backrest of Han's leg, began to tightly braid her hair. "He has nothing to do with me, or Luke," Leia went on. "He's not a—a _father._ You're not a father just because you _—_ "

"You don't need to explain that to me, Leia."

With no elastic band, Leia let her braid begin to unwind. "But is it...wrong or is it right, to feel like that?"

"No one's gradin' us, Sweetheart."

"Luke wants to humanize him. Think of him as someone who..." Leia made a short, impatient sound, almost Han-like. "Was bereaved into darkness." She restarted her braiding. "Excuses."

He kept his voice light. "Luke...said that?"

"...no. No," Leia conceded. "But he...he wants to learn more about Anakin Skywalker, about his artwork. His past. His _marriage._ " She shook her head at the end of her hair. "Luke thinks he'll find a different man than the one who attacked us, attacked our home, the land. Served that evil woman. Killed—" She swallowed. "Killed our mother, _maybe_ killed my—" Too smart to dismiss all the deaths by fire, still Leia balked at this unspeakable abyss.

"Let him." Han said. "Let Luke strip the wreck for whatever parts he wants."

Leia wished her voice didn't quaver. "But I want nothing."

"Then take nothing." Firmly, tenderly, Han caught her chin. "Walk away intact."

"Is that an option? He's my—"

Han's face contorted in instinctive scorn not for her, but for any classification system that grouped Leia Organa with Anakin Skywalker. It was an immediate comfort to her.

"How could Luke want connection to him?" Leia said. "The art! When it was _Ben_ who—"

"Y'know," Han began. "There was this kid in the home." It was still rare that Han talked about his childhood, rare enough that Leia knew he was invoking it deliberately now. "Used to say his father was Joe DiMaggio."

Han offered her a colluding grin, but his eyes were that telling, warm yellow. And in that shift of color Leia understood: Han was inviting her into his experience of pain so she could express hers.

Moved, Leia reached to stroke the column of his throat. "Did you think it was true?"

"Naaaah." Han's smile grew enough to accommodate its sadness. "Kid just wanted to know how come he could slug that ball clear outta the yard."

Leia considered what she had had and Luke had not. About bonds, selves, inheritance. She closed her eyes, rallied the best of herself to stretch beyond her resistance, searching for something to comfort her beloved twin. "He _did_ save Luke," Leia ventured. "Didn't he? Maybe he lov—"

She opened her eyes to see Han's right hand offer a familiar gesture: elevation of the palm, flourish of long fingers, as though pushing something away. There was an almost superstitious flavor to the motion, Leia thought now—protective, pagan. Leia considered her husband's own origins, lost to his memory but preserved nonetheless. Han raised his knee further to bring her closer to him, almost face to face. Took hold of the handle of her hip. His forehead creasing, he took a breath.

"I couldn't see that man's eyes." Han's voice was low and careful. He looked at her. "But love?" He shook his head, short, sharp. "I _know_ what..." Touching his forehead to hers, Han abandoned tact, setting his jaw for truth. "It wasn't love."

Leia closed her eyes into real release. Han's blunt denial was a reprieve, and also a delineation of what was theirs. A declaration of what they were entitled to, and Luke too; what Anakin Skywalker had forfeited. _Love._ She was blessedly free of both forgiveness or hatred. She had love, always had. She knew it too. So what did it matter? Leia had her own father; let Luke have his, mirage or not, and in the meantime, brother and sister had one another. Had Han.

And Han pulled Leia down with him as he moved to the flat of his back, guided her head to rest over his heart. She felt herself absorb his warmth and give it back, his arms around her a luxurious weight.

"'Bout our kid." Han rumbled under her ear. "You decide if someday comes, Princess. I'm good either way." He stroked her hair, accidentally striking his own jaw with his fingers. "I got what I need."

Leia felt herself very awake, but no longer agitated. "No decisions made from fear," she murmured, and kissed Han's neck. He made a pleased, languid sound. Then Leia rolled from him to her back, casting her arms above her head, distractedly curling her fingers around the headboard.

Turning on his side, propping his head on a fist, Han let his gaze rove over her bare breasts, the brave angle of her chin as she studied the beamed ceiling. The blazing intelligence in her eyes. Han closed his own eyes, running his loop of her again, his treasured, electric private archive. Grateful, revelling in being alive to add to it.

Han leaned over to place an open kiss on Leia's breastbone, lips firm, tongue feathery. Still holding the bar with one hand, Leia brought the other to his stubbled cheek. Han looked up at her, his eyes very green, his bruises dark as he moved over her, planted his elbows beside her shoulders. He regarded Leia, studying her face like he was formulating a plan; then he nodded, stringing kisses along her underjaw. Moved a thigh between hers, introduced teeth to her arching throat.

Leia's expression reflected budding thrill, but also restraint as she ever so faintly touched his bruises. "Are you sure you—"

Han lowered his voice to irresistible purring corniness. "C'mon. You know you cure me." He grinned at her. Shamelessly, smoothly, Han brought her hand to where he was thoroughly revived, as if she hadn't noticed, hadn't known it in this closeness. "Could use your help with _this_ damn thing though, it—"

"Han." Leia turned her face to laugh into his forearm.

" _Lei—a._ " Han sang softly back, nudging her nose with his, finding her with his thumb. Then fingers.

"Do we." She breathed his scent in, out. In again. "...have time?"

Han kissed her deeply and intimately, minute after minute, a kind of spendthrift. When he pulled away to study her, his eyes glittered and for another while he just touched her, watched until Leia's breath came heavy, excited, fast. Until she parted her knees, drew them up, drew him into the cradle of her hips. Her head falling back in completion, eyes closing, her lips parting on her little cry.

" _Ah."_ Han's voice so low, almost felt more than heard. "Sweetheart. Got all our lives."


	68. Chapter 68

December 12, 1956. That morning, Han and Leia, Luke and Chewie had gone back into the woods for the first time since Thanksgiving. Not far; they'd come back dragging a full, symmetrical Douglas Fir on the Naberrie twins' sled. And it was only once they'd set the tree up in a paint bucket Han had filled with rocks and water and Leia had wrapped with tinfoil that they realized they had no ornaments or lights. So they put on the jukebox and set to different projects. Chewie in the kitchen baking cookies. Luke spent hours lying on his belly on the floor, drawing and cutting out cardboard ornaments, angels and animals ( _goddamn it kid there's no such thing as the Cobra of Christmas Past_ ) that he tinted with Breha Naberrie's childhood paint set. It was work with only one hand but Luke liked it, said it soothed him. Meanwhile Leia strung all the caps from her set of multicolored Bic pens on a length of twine from Han's shop, and when she ran out of those, added costume brooches and earrings and colored velvet sashes and bows she'd found in the old box of Naberrie clothes until she had a cheerful garland. Han himself collected a box of washers, bright steel and brass, and slipped them onto fronds like rings onto fingers. At the top, where an angel would go, Han wired the die-cast white truck that had topped their wedding cake. In the end, the effect was surprisingly delightful.

Christmastime, Leia had worried slightly, might be painful—recent losses, stresses, Han's childhood. But Luke was Luke, serene and philosophical in grief, resourceful and brave in danger; always that impossibly excited kid at heart, rosy-cheeked and demanding they all go sledding. And cynical Han, it turned out, the hard-bitten orphan, loved Christmas. "Nah, it was the only time you could count on anythin' good. I mean, all the staff went around half-lit for weeks, so they weren't hittin' anyone, and you could nip a bit for yourself if you knew what you were about. You got an orange and some chocolate in your sock on the end of your bunk, and this local outfit used to deliver a sack of presents. Mostly for the younger kids but, y'know, it was still nice to see. And now, man, Chewie's shortbread..." Han trailed off, his face so happy that Luke and Leia exchanged a fond, incredulous look. Then he seemed to awaken, look at the twins, flashing them his half-grin. His eyes lingered on his wife with light and warmth. Then Han slapped his hands together, rubbed them. "Reminds me: C'mon kid. Need your help."

"Where are you going?" Leia asked.

"It's a surprise," Han called back. "You, upstairs."

On his way out the door, Han tossed a piece of popcorn in the air and caught it in his mouth. Threw a piece of popcorn at Luke.

XXXXXXXXXX

The title, Leia grimaced, was grandiose. _The Secret History of New Hope, Indiana._

But she had to start somewhere. She had to start somewhere, Leia thought, sighing as she sat cross-legged in the center of her bed, surrounded by snowy balls of discarded paper. Speaking of snowballs, even through the closed windows she could hear laughter from outside as Han and Luke pelted one another.

"I've only got one hand," Luke protested.

Han made a crackling walkie-talkie sound in his throat. "Come in, Echo Three. Life ain't fair. Over."

They were outside waiting for Chewie to finish in the kitchen. He had to help Han and Luke move something from the shop to the cabin—Luke had what Han called his _busted wing_ —and Leia wasn't to come downstairs until the job was done. She would have stayed upstairs anyway. She had a pitch in mind, an idea for the first real feature of her own imagination, a work that was hers, beginning to end, that she would research and write herself. She wanted to deliver the proposal to Mon Mothma this week, before the work holiday party.

"But Han." Luke could barely get the words out through his laughter."It's my birthd—"

Whip- _Whuppp._ Luke yelped.

"Happy birthday to _you_."

They were so loud Leia put down her paper and pen. She got up from the bed, went to the window and looked: Han was in his new blue parka, bent at the waist, a hand braced on his knee; Luke's face was as iced as a cake. Han had his knitted glove splayed over his own face, as though to laugh that hard was an exposure. In his tan coat and brimmed knit hat Luke sprawled in the snowbank where he had fallen and surrendered to mirth. His wounded hand bandaged up into a snowball itself.

Han came closer, still laughing, to help Luke up. When he leaned down Luke stuffed snow into Han's collar, so impossibly fast and accurate that even one-handed he managed two fistfuls. Han made a high stuttering sound as the snow burned down his back, yanking at his parka to shake it out as it melted against his warmth.

"Sonofa _bitch_ it's in my _shirt_ —"

Luke laughed, utterly delighted with himself, as Han did a frantic, long-limbed dance. Now Leia laughed, too. Oh, her brother. Pure ethereal murder. Luke raised his arms in triumph. "Echo Three _out._ "

"Golly gee, I'm Luke Skywalker," Han simpered as he stripped off his coat and then, disgusted, his soaked flannel workshirt to the wet-backed thermal t-shirt beneath, then that too until he was bare-chested and goose-bumped in the snow. Leia smiled, biting her thumb—it was a sight, oddly erotic in its unexpectedness. "Ain't I just the nicest little fucker..."

Leia crossed to the bureau and got out a wool undershirt, another flannel workshirt. Then she opened the window, winding open the screen. She stuck two fingers in her mouth the way Han had taught her, wolf-whistled at his half-nudity. Han wheeled, looking up, his eyes delighted crescents against the winter sun.

"What was that about _sexual endorsement?_ " Luke called.

She shrugged remorselessly, leaning out the window with the dry garments. Han opened his arms, turned this way and that for her perusal. "I'm _good_ with it, Junior."

Luke winced. Han jogged closer to pluck tumbling clothes from the air. Chewie stepped onto the porch. Han glanced slyly back up at Leia. "That's it, Birthday Girl," Han ordered, winking at her as he tugged wool down over his lean middle. "Back to work: show's over."

XXXXXXXXXX

For the first time in memory the Winter Fete, held every year on December 12th, was cancelled; heavy snowfall warning. The snow started to come down hard in the late afternoon. After they'd moved Leia's gift—she still wasn't allowed to glance toward the living space, so she ate her piece of Chewie's magnificent white-chocolate-lemon birthday cake behind the blinder of an opened cabinet door—Chewie eyed the sky, said he'd better get back to town. Luke glanced at Han and Leia and asked Leia, lightly, if she minded if he caught a ride into town with Chewie, too. He knew they always spent their birthday together but the Rogues wanted to throw him a party and maybe he'd stay at Wedge and Janson's place after, the roads...

Luke had been on their couch for over two weeks. He wasn't surprised when neither Leia nor Han objected.

XXXXXXXXXX

Han was careful as he walked Leia, on his feet, chest pressed to her back and hands over her eyes, from the kitchen and through the main space. She laughed at the sensation of being swung along on his gait, her hands over his, the unfamiliar rings they wore on their left hands clicking and catching. That was what they'd agreed, after everything, to give one another for Christmas; wedding bands, warm gold, unadorned. When the jeweller happily asked the young couple when the wedding was, Han and Leia shared a secret smile.

"Feels...different." Han had said after they exchanged the rings (naked, in bed), flexing a knuckle under the weight of the gold band.

"Heavy?" Leia teased.

"Yeah," He looked at her seriously, cancelling any notion of pejorative. "Yeah."

There wasn't anything else they wanted for Christmas. But this was Leia's birthday.

XXXXXXXXXX

Ben had once told Luke and Leia that any work of art is a plea for connection. Han and Leia were not thinking of that as they sat, her in his lap, him rocking the kitchen chair gently back on its legs, nuzzling her hair, her neck. Her back to his chest. Sitting before the thing Han himself had made for her—he would not have called it art, would have rolled his eyes at the notion. But it was a work of art nonetheless, a clean-lined, gleaming mahogany desk, scaled smaller than standard, everything fit just to Leia. He'd gauged the height of her typewriter, figured the clearance between underside of wood and small bent knees. Drawer handles left just mildly grainy so they wouldn't slip on inky fingers but everything else sanded and stained and polished until it was like opaque amber glass.

Han cleared his throat into her silence. Watched their paired hands still running over the perfect surface. She felt him look at her then quickly away.

Leia wasn't speaking because she couldn't. She wasn't speaking because she was still looking. There was a green glass diner mug of pens and pencils, a new thesaurus and a copy of _Ripley's Believe it or Not_. Her throat worked. So much observation of Leia was clear in Han's painstaking work—her body, her logic, her history and her habits and even little practises that she was unconscious of herself—and Han's study, his knowledge of her was the gift. This loving projection of her true self.

She plucked a pencil from the mug and tested its wicked sharpness on the pad of a finger. Han grinned against her cheek, and Leia felt his eyebrows waggle in what she knew was allusion to his knife, her own gift channelled into this one.

"I'll make you a better chair, too," he murmured, into her ear. "Planned to, but time kinda got away from—"

Leia fit her head to his shoulder, reached to sift her fingers in Han's hair. Her other palm smoothing over the whorled, satiny wood—so meticulous and detailed that she knew he took her work seriously, but simple enough to remain unpretentious. "It's. I—" She shook her head. "Oh, Han."

And Leia knew she didn't have to say, anymore, that she did not want the cold cut of diamonds. For Leia the pure curve of wood, of her gold band warming under his thumb. And through the window-glass were all the diamonds she could ever want, arcane patterns punched in the tin of night: gods and cradles, twins and bearers. The light seemed to stretch out to them, over them as she turned her face into his neck.

"You wanna break a bottle of champagne on it?" He laughed, quiet. "S'what princesses do, right?"

Leia rose from his lap and turned, her palms on the bevelled edge of the desk, boosted herself up to its silky surface. Han's eyes flared in the firelight. She placed a foot on his knee; she toed open a perfectly gliding, silent drawer to brace the other. He couldn't help it; he glanced at the space this created beneath her skirt and swallowed. Let his hands run up her thighs, looking up to find that her eyes were joyful and playful, boundlessly thankful, challenging. Han clasped the underside of Leia's knee and kissed there first. Tossed the pencil over his shoulder and leaned forward, covered her mouth with his.

XXXXXXXXXX

Later. Han reading an aviation textbook in the armchair, Leia looking over her supplies. Yellow legal pad from her father's office. Her typewriter. The local research that Ben had let her think all these years was for him, her instinctive detective collection. Breha's tin paintbox nestled on a little cubby-shelf, where she could see the jaunty robin. The green mug from Chewie's diner full of pencils whittled to eager points. Leia smiled, picturing the knife at work, the large, careful, precise hands. Han's hands: those sure hands, everything he took into them, everything he did with them. She felt a rush of love so strong, so hot, that sat back in her seat as though at sudden speed. Closed her eyes, placed her palms to the reality of wood. Everything is possible, she said in her own mind, in her brother's voice. _Everything is possible,_ Leia breathed in a rush. In, then out.

Leia opened her eyes, Padmé Naberrie's. Took a pencil in her own fingers, and began.


	69. Chapter 69

Author's Note: Here's where we go to Unbearable Flufftown, Indiana. If that ain't your stop...time to get off the bus. No hard feelings. Xo!

XXXXXXXXXX

Autumn 1958. On her walks, from the gentle plateau where Ben's garden—now Chewie's—grew, Leia could see the roof of their cabin. It wasn't really a cabin, anymore, Leia thought, reflecting on the word. It was a little house. Last spring Han had added an extension off the main living space, which he divided into two small rooms: one a study for Leia (although he called it her workshop), and the other he insisted on calling a guest room. _Y'know, to use for Luke._

Han blushed, a little, when he said this. Luke, when he was up at holidays, stayed free at the Bespin, an apartment block which Lando had bought and improbably transformed into the most successful hotel in the history of New Hope—one of the poshest and best-reviewed in all Indiana, in fact. It wasn't that Luke was some snob who preferred the high life, but the bedroom that Han shared with Leia (which Luke avoided thinking about as she was, you know, _his sister_ ), was a loft, with waist-high walls and no door. Not a lot of privacy from houseguests. Luke noticed, with a private smile to himself, that though they always offered him the couch, neither Han nor Leia argued too hard when he turned them down. Even the Falcon felt a bit too close to Luke, sometimes. He and Han planned to eventually build, together, a small place on Ben's old land for Luke to use as a retreat, but until then, Luke liked the Bespin.

So it wasn't guest quarters, and Leia and Han both knew it. Still, neither of them would say it, what they hoped for that little room with the window-seat and the built-in bookshelves, the room that Han painted light yellow and they left empty. Leia had quit her pills only two months before.

At first, sex was different. Not in frequency; it wasn't like they ever had to work it into some schedule. But the first while knowing there was nothing between them and another life Han and Leia were almost shy, formal. Hesitant, too...serious. They knew one another's bodies; they knew how to leave one another technically satisfied. But that wasn't the same, and they both knew it, though neither knew what to _do_ about it until the August afternoon they felt like having a beer after a swim in the lake. Maybe they both wanted to be relaxed.

But they didn't have any beer and it was too hot for whiskey, so they cracked the bottle of very expensive vodka Lando had given them when they got married and mixed that with hammered ice and Orange Crush and it was incredibly delicious, a kind of tangy slush, only it was _too_ delicious so what they had instead of one drink was...four? and what they got wasn't relaxed but drunk.

They woke naked in the dawn, on the porch on their half-unzipped sleeping bag, in a flurry of clothes and playing cards. Transistor radio knocked on its side, still crackling soft static. Headaches and hickeys and scrapes and orange tint where it should _not_ have been. Wincing, laughing, a jack of hearts stuck to Han's back. No one got pregnant but they were themselves again.

XXXXXXXXXX

September 29, 1958. On their second wedding anniversary, Han and Leia were in the orchard between their cabin and Ben's old place, picking apples. It wasn't glamorous, but they never made an occasion of the date. They liked to keep it low-key as their courthouse wedding itself, which had, Han said, turned out _pretty damn great._

But if it was humble for them, the fall afternoon was spectacular nonetheless, the sky a high, wind-washed blue, the sun slanting bronze. They could have walked but they planned to pick enough apples that they drove, the back of the truck filled with slat baskets—the Kenobi apples were Chewie's favorite to bake with. There was something special in that orchard, Chewie said. The apples were some sort of hybrid—Pippin and Pink Lady, Luke thought. In the orchard today were mostly winter wrens, boldly fattening for their flights. They did not flee at Millie's approach, rocking along the ruts in the grass, Han untroubled by the bumpy land. Leia liked the way he rolled the steering wheel under the heel of his hand, the other hanging easy over her shoulder.

Chewie had packed them sandwiches in exchange for their labor, and they brought blankets to make it a picnic. But it had rained the night before, and the ground was wet, so Han tossed the blankets into Millie's bed and it was there, after picking two hours, they climbed up and ate in a nest. Shared an apple after, so delicious it cramped the mouth.

Leia kept that autumn anniversary afternoon with Han close, all her life. This was for many happy reasons—one being that they couldn't seem to stop laughing. Oh, they were both quick-witted, but that day they were inspired to a relentless giddiness, almost tipsy on the cider-smell of the crisp air. Han leaning against a tree trunk, she'd made him laugh so hard. Laughing so hard herself that she had to rest her forehead to a smooth, worn rung of Ben Kenobi's ladder.

When her laughter tapered Leia swivelled on the toes of her little lace-up walking brogues and there was Han, leaning on her ladder, looking up at her. He smiled, his face dappled in leaf-light, and placed his hand on the back of her wool-stockinged leg. Casually affectionate, drawing her attention to the epilogue of the funny story he'd been telling. But staring up at Leia Han trailed off, and his hand tightened on her calf—something in Leia's face, in her eyes, weighted the air between them. Something in the quiver of finely curved muscle beneath his fingers. In the heavy drone of late-shift bees, drowsy and industrious. Something in the breeze, whispering and rattling in the bright leaves.

A few leaves shed, fluttered down. Yellow and deep red. Han's eyes hot green, fixed on hers as his hand ran up the back of her thigh. Leia let him just stroke her there, callouses rasping wonderfully against the soft skin just above the elastic top of her stocking. And then she stepped, deliberately, down a rung to bring Han's head level with her chest. She opened her cardigan, then her blouse, and then her sheer, front-fastening brassiere. Braced her fingers at a rung behind her. Han's eyes moved between her reveal and her face, lips parted, eyes half-lidded. Finally he leaned close, right hand on her bare back under her clothes. Left hand curved over her right breast, his mouth at the left. Leia slung her arms over his shoulders, ran her palms down his back. Put her face into Han's hair; his hair shorter now but still ruffling in the air that stirred her open clothes, brisk contrast with the sweet, hot draw at her chest.

Lips still at her breasts, Han raised a boot to a rung, making a right angle of one long leg. His hands swept up Leia's skirt, fingers toying with hidden, lacy edges. But Han left her underwear on and her high wool stockings up. He tugged Leia by the hips astride his flexed leg, brought pressure to her or her to pressure. Raised his hard thigh high between hers; raised his face up almost fiercely to be kissed.

Their mouths had a crisp gold tang together, gold as apple cider, as the honey light that announced the season's arrival. Leia took Han's face in her hands, him sighing into the kiss. His thigh pressed against her in a rhythm that rose and fell with the breeze in the leaves. The feeling swelling, slow, a huge hand splayed at her bottom keeping her close. Until they both weakened; a tremble in her thighs, or a tremble in his. A dovetailed catch in their breathing. Wrapping Leia's legs around his hips, Han swung her from the ladder with easy strength, kissing her as he twisted. He would have lowered her to the thick moss except it was wet, so he walked them blind, lips still meshed, to the blanket-nested bed of his truck.

Dreamlike shifted to frantic, some imperative of nature, embodiment of the animating spirit. A course set for them by the pale moon, half-finished in the sky. Found themselves on their sides, face to face, Leia's bottom leg tucked in a soft hollow between Han's waist and a blanket. They did not undress. They fell upon one another, tender-rough; he pushed up her skirt, tugged her underwear off, she unbelted his trousers, unbuttoned his shirt and fly, shoved cotton below his narrow hips. Her hand trailed his bare lower belly, finding the heavy base of him, making him twitch.

And then a pause. It was a second of the clock but it was eternal, laced with trust and terror and lust and humor. Forever after Leia remembered the kestrel arrowing by above her. A last silent exchange of desire and daring. A look very like the one they'd exchanged on the marble stairs of the Mantell courthouse two years ago, just about this time in the afternoon. _You ready to do this thing, Sweetheart?_

Leia hooked her heels at the sweet rise of his rear, Han gripped her hip and they brought him into her, together, completely. They both closed their eyes, they both breathed disbelief into their kiss. When Han pulled back to move, to look, his eyes were tender and feral. Leia felt her eyelids quivering, she felt fresh air blow through her as they found their pulse. Hearts working, opening, everything coursing between them, no barriers left. Leia was almost there, already almost there, so close she ached, that knot in her belly almost cinched. Han watched her throughout, hot and intent. Brought his touch to her along with chaste lips to her cheek, his thumb just the ghostliest rasp and how did Han know, how could he know this time that that—oh that _exactly,_ was what she, all she—

Han _did_ know: his smile was affirmation and adoration, the slightest wolfish gratification. Still, she told him, in syllables too urgent for the semblance of order— _Han there Han...there._ Leia's hand slapped to his driving hip, splayed over the concave dip there she loved, as her head fell back into her irresistible winding climb, craving the plummet, almost fearing it. Too locked in the rise now to control it, to steer it herself, to bring herself to it—gravity could have killed it, pulled Leia back to the planet but Han held his propulsive rhythmic line. Held his breath, dizzy himself with the stacking height, with the glorious, rare selfishness on Leia's face, both feeling her lock, lock, lock around him. And then Leia gave a savage little cry that shaded plaintive, her hand twisting in his shirt till Han heard the split of a shoulder seam. Heard his breath leaving him: _so beautiful yeah Sweetheart yes._

Han laced his hand in Leia's and rolled her to her back. They both gasped in ecstatic shock at the new angle afforded by the blankets bunched beneath her; Han had to stop, it nearly finished him off, he'd never felt so completely merged with Leia before and it wasn't like they hadn't tried. As he fought himself, his breathing rough, Leia turned her face to the fine wash of sun, to the breeze sending leaves tumbling through the air. Beyond Han's shoulder, leaves; light picking out their variegated color, their fronds and spines and structures. And Leia had a flash of how everything in the world worked, how everything fit together. She reached for it, reached—but Han raised from her, started to move, to look down on Leia, to meet her again and again. The insight was gone before Leia could record it, dissolved in the swell of pleasure.

How Leia loved the immediate aftermath, the space between her climax and Han's own. Sometimes she thought she loved it best of all of sex: this shared territory where, deliciously freed from the tractor-beam of orgasm, Leia could enjoy Han yielding to his own. Watch Han lean and gold in his open, torn shirt, gilded in leaf-light and blue sky. Some wild disguised creature, muttering demand with entreaty in his eyes. Han leveraged into a tight, sweet grind, closer, closer. Transfixed on Leia, his eyes apple-green. His keen chase gradually falling to supplication. Han turned his face briefly away, his profile set into private concentration until he turned back, at the very end he looked back, his whole face opening to her, smile radiant and complete as the face of the moon. When Han told Leia he loved her his breathing hitched and his eyebrows knit; his straightened arms shook under the weight of it. And her name escaped him as moaned laughter. Pressing her mouth to his throat, to Han's joyful vibration, Leia laughed back. And all the orchard seemed to strum along.

XXXXXXXXXX

November 12, 1958. When Leia missed her October cycle she didn't notice. She had a deadline coming up for the first outline of her book, and she'd always been irregular. And it wasn't sickness, when she guessed: it was one night when Han was away, a mid-week supply flight to Idaho. She found herself in Han's thermal shirt, standing in front of the refrigerator in a chilly block of light, staring, cataloguing milk and eggs and cheese. Half-awake, past two o'clock in the morning. It wasn't even hunger, it was more...some biological drive to gauge resources.

Dr. Kalonia squeezed Leia in on her lunch break the next day. Drew her blood and congratulated her on her marvellous serialized feature on New Hope—was it true it was picked up nationally? Yes? A book contract? Marvellous, a richly deserved success, she'd never read non-fiction so compelling, it was like a novel but impeccably researched—and sent Leia home to wait.

It was the next week that the sickness started. Not vomiting, that would have been a relief from the constant queasiness. The snowy morning Leia's results were due she felt so tossed and ill on the raft of their bed that she crept from Han's arms, took the advance copy of the book she was due to review for work, and got into the bath before dawn. Weirdly, the water was the only place Leia did not feel seasick.

She was absorbed in scribbling in the margins when Han appeared in the open doorway, hair wild, bare-chested and barefoot in his long gray thermal bottoms. "What's goin' on, Princess? You sleep on a pea?" He yawned so widely that he stumbled blind as he entered the room; Leia couldn't help but smile.

"Actually, Han, I—"

Stretching, a hand palming his flat belly, Han eyed her wet nakedness, too recently asleep to hide his greed. "Whatcha doin' up anyway? S'our day off," he said. He gave her a drowsy, what he probably thought was seductive smile."Thought maybe we could spend the morning on our, uh, project."

"Well, that's what—"

"Eh, what the hell." He stripped off the bottoms, winked at her. "Afternoon's free too." Han nudged Leia forwards and slipped into the water behind her. Sighing with pleasure, Leia leaned back against him, bracing her elbows on the knees drawn slightly up on either side of her. Almost matter-of-factly Han covered her breasts with his hands, as was his habit in the bath; Leia hissed in sudden—not discomfort, exactly, but heightened sensitivity.

"Now." Han kissed water from her neck. "What's more pressing than stayin' in bed with your..." He leaned his face forward over her shoulder, flipped the paper galley cover lightly shut over her fingers. Squinted at the title: _The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich._ "Holy shit." He lifted his hands from her body, held them up in surrender.

Leia couldn't help but laugh at his defeat.

"A little light reading, huh."

"It's horrifying. Fascinating... _terrifying,_ really, how easily tyranny takes hold."

She felt Han scrub wet hands over his face, through his hair. "Yeah, the world is a strange fuckin' place."

Leia turned against Han's chest, stretching across him to put the block of paper on the shelf behind the tub that held her toiletries. She put her palm to Han's ridged upper belly, rested her chin on her knuckles, looked seriously up at her husband's face. Let her legs drift between his.

"But mostly good, would you say?"

Han didn't answer, just gave a laden shrug, long arms stretched out around the lip of the tub. "Our corner of it is," he said, a kind of threat to everyone else. He studied her. "Everythin' okay?"

She toyed with his navel; he caught her wrist, ticklish. He felt a quickening of her pulse. When she spoke Leia's voice contained a final note that Han recognized at once from poker—win or lose, time to lay it all out. Han's own adrenaline spiked.

Leia told him what she believed. Han's eyes went wider than she'd ever seen them and a new color, too, so sea-deep they were nearly blue. For agonizing seconds Han stared at her, silent and still. Not relinquishing his clutch on her wrist. Somehow, his grip had both tightened and gentled. Han blinked, then looked off, over the pale green tile.

"I've." Han said, at last. "Been meaning to get another first aid kit for in here." Leia blinked at him, incredulous. He nodded to himself, to her. "Good thing to have, Sweetheart, medical supplies. Y'know, in case anyone gets—"

"Pregnant?" Leia asked.

Han winced at his own babbling. Then the smile broke across his face.

XXXXXXXXXX

When they hit the main, well-plowed highway, Han's grip on Millie's wheel slackened slightly. "So." He looked quickly at Leia, then back at the white road; he cleared his throat. "When will we know—I mean, Kes said they killed a rabbit or..."

Leia smiled, faintly. Han, one minute so cool-headed, so capable and practical, was baffled and spooked. "It's just a blood test, now. Hormonal changes or...or not."

"How long does that mumbo-jumbo take?"

"Two weeks. Approximately."

" _Wha_ —goddamn _._ " Han blew out a breath. "Won't we go nuts, waiting?"

"No," Leia said, without thinking. "My test is back. The results are today."

"But you said." Han's eyes narrowed. "You've known this for...?"

"I haven't _known_ ," Leia said with the pedantic correctness that she reverted to when she felt guilty.

Han growled, "Fine. How long have you _speculated._ "

Leia looked at her mittened hands, twined in her lap. "The day after you left, I saw the doctor."

"Left for where. I been to—"

"Idaho."

A muscle in Han's jaw twitched. "That long, huh."

Leia's stomach felt suddenly, horribly sour. "Martha got me in last minute. It was more—there was no time to..." she swallowed slickly, distracted from what she was actually saying. "Discuss it in committee."

"I...am not a committee?" He shook his head, incredulous. "Leia—"

She put her visor down, hoping that blocking out the oncoming view would soothe this rising nausea. "What was I supposed to say?"

"Oh, I dunno." Han shifted into fourth gear with tight precision. " _Han, I think I'm pregnant?_ Somethin' like that."

"What if I'm not?" Leia countered, pressing her glove to her forehead. Her head swam. "I didn't want to torture you with the possibility, if I."

"That's not torture."

Leia looked at him, horrified at her choice of word. At her rare tactlessness.

"All things, y'know...considered," Han said, "I'm a little tougher than that. And I don't like,"

"Pull over." Leia said it so weakly Han did not hear her.

"I don't _like_ startin' out with—"

"Han. Pull over."

"Naaah, forget it. I ain't _mad,_ Sweetheart, I just..." Han glanced at her. "Are _you_ ma—" Han's frown became a frightened double take: she'd gone celery-green, her mitten pressed to her mouth. "...Leia?"

He pulled hard to the shoulder of the road. Leia barely made it out of the truck before she was kneeling in the snow, heaving helplessly. Han flung himself out into the chill, after her. Finished, Leia rose shakily to her feet; he caught her by the elbows as she almost fell back to her knees.

"Here." Han scooped a curl of snow into his fingers, held it to her lips. "This'll help."

She didn't ask how he knew, but he was right. After Leia sucked the snow into water, rinsed her mouth and spat it out, she felt slightly better. Meanwhile Han broke a slim icicle off a branch and wrapped it in a clean work-rag. When Leia seemed slightly steadied, Han walked her gently back to the truck, holding the cold compress to the back of her neck.

XXXXXXXXXX

They climbed the narrow staircase to Dr. Kalonia's office, above Knapp's Drugs. The tiny waiting room was crowded, hazy with cigarette smoke. Leia blanched. Han, fearing another bout of vomiting, leaned down to her ear. "D'you wanna wait downstairs, in the store? I'll stay," he offered. "Come get you when it's your turn."

Leia shook her head. Han followed her wide eyes to a young woman whose belly was expanded to stunning proportions, and was it— _moving?_ He stared, too, for a moment, gulping. No point in getting ahead of themselves, Han rallied. You could only deal in realities.

Han led Leia to the last open seat and braced his long frame against the wall beside her. Leia picked up a tattered copy of _Good Housekeeping_ and flipped rapidly through recipes and wifely advice with disinterest bordering on agitation. Han shuffled his boots, cracked his neck, stuck his hands in his coat pockets, jingled his change. The very pregnant woman eyed his fidgeting and exchanged a chuckle with her friend, whose own abdomen was only gently rounded. Setting the magazine aside, Leia fixed Han with a half-indulgent, half-irritated eye.

"Why don't _you_ go downstairs?" Leia said, not unkindly.

"Naaah, I'm okay," Han said, stretching himself as casually as he could, to reassure her. His extended arm knocked askew a framed Norman Rockwell print of a mother and child. The picture swayed alarmingly; Han cursed, seizing it just before it could come down. He winced, straightening the frame.

The two pregnant ladies tittered. Leia sighed, rubbing at the space between her eyes.

Han felt a hot flush crawl up his neck. "Alright," he mumbled. "I'll be—" he pointed at the floor. "Drugstore. Magazines? New issue of _Drag Racing_ out, and...no, I already got that." He looked boyishly thwarted. "I,"

The pregnant women watched him with amusement.

"Maybe I'll just stay here and—"

" _Han._ " Leia said, and even she was smiling now, though her eyelashes were fluttering, that little tell of exasperation. "Go to Chewie's. Please."


	70. Chapter 70

The diner was quiet on this cold, bright late November morning. Slanting light hit the picture window, broke into fine gold pixels. Light tinted blue through the letters Luke had painted on the glass in a font he'd invented for Chewie himself. Tall, sturdy, unpretentious. Friendly. Luke had called it _sans serif,_ whatever that meant, must be something he'd picked up at school. Wedge Antilles was studying the _I_ in _DINER,_ dawdling over his lunch-break burger, when he heard Wes Janson call from the kitchen.

"It's dead as Dracula, man. Where's the paper?"

You knew it was unendurably quiet when Janson wanted to do the crossword. More like he wanted to walk it around the diner badgering everyone else for their answers, then scribbling them in himself. It wasn't cheating so much as Janson was trying to stave off his natural antics. He was getting married in a couple months; he'd never be a _total_ drag as a married man, but Janson _did_ figure he should maybe settle down just a little. Betty liked to laugh, Janson told Wedge, but she'd confessed that sometimes it was hard to really talk to him, all joke after joke. He loved Betty, so. And anyway. When he _did_ joke, now they'd hit double-strength.

Wedge, himself, was now single. Marcie wanted to get married and he didn't. So they ended it, no hard feelings. Marcie hadn't wanted to marry _him_ , exactly—she'd had a hope chest since she was eight. Now she was dating a decent fella who belonged to Phil's bowling league. Wedge had heard they were already pinned; guy had a good job at the mill in Eisley, there'd be a ring soon. Marcie was a good person. So good for them.

The junior waitress, Peggy, flipped through the _Gazette_ to find the syndicated crossword. After graduating from high school, Annie had planned to stay on at Chewie's—she couldn't afford college, and she didn't have the grades, or the interest, to go for free. But Annie, always creative, had taken up candy-making as a hobby; she gave an assortment to Willa Calrissian for her birthday. Willa, stunned by the quality, commissioned enough candy to place on The Bespin's pillowcases. With Chewie's enthusiastic encouragement, Annie quit waitressing to go into business, hiring her four sisters and working out of her mother's kitchen. But then guests began asking where to buy boxes of the whimsical and meticulously crafted confections and that business lightbulb flashed on above Lando's head. He put up the money for Annie to open her own candy shop in the lobby of his hotel, equipped with small professional kitchen. People had laughed at his folly. But it wasn't _kid_ -candy, Lando explained, it was fancy. Opaque champagne bubbles, salted truffles, strawberry marzipan carved into cameos. It was what a sophisticated person (Lando's patient smile said _like himself_ ) would choose for a hostess gift. And damn if _Annie's_ hadn't cleaned right up. That sweet girl was going to be rich, and the clever Calrissian siblings, still richer. Smiling, Wedge eyed the cheery pink light fixture Annie had once chosen, thinking of the sour-raspberry gems he'd brought to Barbara Antilles for Mother's Day. _Should've known._

Biting into his burger, Wedge turned back to the _National Geographic_ he'd bought at the drugstore. He liked to flip through those when it was slow. Imagine cruising the Nile, checking out Mayan ruins down in Mexico. Back in the small town Wedge had known all his life, things were changing for everyone. Kes had found success as an electrician; Shara was a maternity nurse, working shifts in the new women's hospital on the north side of town. They had their clever little guy, Paul (or Poe, as everyone called the toddler to distinguish him from the uncle he was named for). Janson was getting married, getting involved with Phil Antilles' booming autobody shop. Phil had first offered Wedge the chance to buy in, be partners, no pressure, and Wedge had thought about it. He wasn't even really sure why he declined, but he knew he had to. So Phil offered the chance to Wes, with Wedge's blessing—Janson was almost their third brother anyway. And Janson, thrilled, leapt at the chance. He'd be starting there after the wedding, staying on part-time at Chewie's.

"Seven-letter word: _iridescent, precious,_ " Suzette read out.

Suzette was Chewie's floor manager, now, though she still took a table when things got slammed, which was almost all the time. Business was booming. Chewie had offered Wedge a promotion, and when Wedge felt compelled to say no to him, too, cheerfully gave him the raise anyway. Now Wedge was being absurdly overpaid for head line cook. Wedge loved and admired his huge, kindly, talented boss, but the diner wasn't where he saw his life. And he didn't want to take advantage of Chewie's generosity.

The door jangled, then, and Han Solo walked in. He didn't look quite himself, though not ill; his color was its normal clean gold. He scanned the diner with preoccupied eyes, verging on dazed. They settled on Wedge, and didn't seem to recognize him—or Solo's brain simply couldn't process the information.

"Pearls," Janson hollered from the kitchen.

"I said seven letters," Suzette snapped.

Han raised his brows in confusion, but this exchange seemed to rouse him. He moved through the mostly-empty tables to Wedge's booth, but didn't slide into the bench with his usual easy insouciance. Instead he nodded almost formally. "Antilles."

His mouth full, Wedge gestured at the open booth seat opposite him. With a relieved half-grin, Han accepted. Wedge cocked his head. He'd known Solo for over three years, had unshakeable liking and respect for him and knew the feeling was mutual. They were cool. Even if Solo still rooked him for the odd twenty bucks at pool. Solo's hesitance with Wedge was new.

"What're you readin'?" Han leaned forward on his elbows, seemingly hungry for distraction.

Wedge held up the magazine. It was opened to a close-up of an anaconda, khaki-green and black, looped upon an Amazonian branch. A tube of scaled muscle, empty ink-drop eye. Thin, cunning tongue, flickering.

"Aw get the _fuck_ —" Solo recoiled in the vinyl seat.

This was a startling reaction from Han, who was notoriously no coward. But since Antilles was no sadist, he obligingly withdrew the magazine, flipping the page. Solo relaxed a bit, though he still looked slightly sick to be confronted with the fact that constrictors existed on _his_ planet.

Wedge dipped a sheaf of french fries in ketchup. "You don't like snakes?"

"I _hate_ snakes, Wedge." Han pointed a finger as though this distinction was crucial. "I _hate_ 'em."

Chewing, Wedge turned another page, stopping on the glorious sunset cleft of the Grand Canyon. He swallowed his mouthful, shook his head. Man. Now _that_ was somethin'.

"You ever seen it?" Wedge asked, tapping the image with a finger.

But when Wedge looked up Solo was staring out the window, craning his neck to check down Main Street. Knocking his knuckles in absent rhythm on the silver-flecked red Formica between them. Han turned back. "Huh?...oh, the Canyon. Nah. You?"

And in one of the stranger moments of Wedge Antilles' life, he found himself talking almost automatically. It was like listening to a radio broadcast about what he hadn't known he wanted. Wedge told Han Solo—told himself—that he loved New Hope, loved his friends, but lately he wanted...well, he could climb in his Chevy and try his luck, striking out for Route 66. It was as easy as packing a bag, gassing up and getting a map. Maybe leave just after Christmas: get through the snow to the desert. Arizona, Vegas, California. Then, in the spring, double back and stay with Luke in New York for awhile; hit Boston maybe, drop in on his cousin in Southie. Drive the whole huge country and see what he saw. Wedge had real money saved. Sure, food and gas cost—motels would be the biggest expense, but he could sleep in his back seat here and there—

"Take the Falcon," Han said.

Wedge blinked, his mouth still open.

Han pointed that famous index finger again. "I want her back, mind." His face softened and he looked out the window as though into some kindly future. "Might wanna take my—vacations, like." But when Han's eyes returned to Wedge's, they were quick and keen as ever. "I mean it, Antilles. Take 'er awhile. I know you got the chops to look after her right."

"Hell, Solo, I—thanks." Wedge shook his head. "Thank you."

"Hey." Han opened his large expressive hands in a kind of relinquishment. His wedding band winked light. "The Falcon should see the country, man. She _should_ see the road. That's what she's meant for, not sittin' there in our back fiel—"

Leia Organa came walking up the street, then. Visible to Wedge, but not to Han. Her green coat was opened to the cold afternoon and her intelligent, determined face was open to it too, turned into the breeze, a curve to her brick-red lips. _Leia's so pretty,_ Wedge thought calmly—the same childlike, limited phrase that he'd harbored since he was six years old. _Leia's so pretty._ Today Leia was truly lovely, fair, the rising air tinting her regal cheekbones. Rich hair cut shorter and blowing just above her shoulders, held loosely back with the jade combs Luke had brought her from New York City.

Wedge remembered seeing combs like that in a museum in Mantell once, on a field trip they all—him and Wes, Shara, Luke and Leia—went on. Almost the whole New Hope Primary, it was tiny then. 1944? Leia would know. The archivist of their lives, her mind capacious enough to preserve knowledge others called trivial. Those antique combs, locked in a case, were made of all sorts of different stuff: ivory, polished wood. Some inlaid with stones, or slivers of pottery. But one comb was carved from a pale, almost cloudlike material. If you leaned this way the comb looked pink, that way lavender; from another angle it was just itself, radiant and creamy. Wedge thought it was pretty—that word—but hadn't wanted to ask the guide what the girly comb was made of, not in front of the older boys. It was Leia who'd known the word for it, of course, Leia who whispered it to him when Phil and his friends had moved on to the arrowheads.

What was it, now? He couldn't think of the word, though he knew he could step outside right this minute, step outside and ask Leia and she would still know it. Wedge could recall only the mutable color that seemed so precious. Child-Wedge had been shocked to come back to New Hope and see the effect on Main Street, for free, in rainwater and gasoline. The color was even better there on the pavement, richer, deeper, not locked in some cool column of glass. Wedge had wished he could touch it, that secret prism, if only he could figure how to reach it.

Following Wedge's look Han turned his head; spotting his wife he was on his feet and up the aisle in what seemed like three long strides. His voice carried back just before it was cut off by the door, swinging shut behind him.

"Hey Sweetheart, what's th—"

Wedge watched Leia turn that gleaming face on Han. You could see Solo's heart in his eyes, his mouth blazing a hopeful, lopsided path. And Leia bit her lower lip and nodded at Han, her smile bursting free as she ran to him. He easily caught her up off her feet and kissed her, spun her in an arc, her skirt fluttering like butterflies around her knees. Any dummy could see how Han Solo loved Leia Organa, see just how precious she was to him. And never, in Wedge's long knowledge of her, had Leia looked at anyone with eyes like _that._

"Opals?" Peggy ventured. "Opals are..."

Suzette fixed her with a look, holding up her hands and popping up seven fingers, one by one.

Rising on her tiptoes on Han's boots, Leia closed those lustrous eyes, laughing some private happiness into his shoulder. Han rested his cheek on Leia's head, his own eyes closed too, long arms wrapped almost twice around her small frame. With the mild shock of a just-recalled dream, Wedge realized that he'd actually thought of Leia just last week. Only fleetingly: in his brother's auto shop, when Phil made the offer. Wedge had stared at a gasoline splash under the fluorescent lights, and he found the old magic color. But it just wasn't right inside the garage, it was shallow, static. Just as it hadn't been right trapped under glass. Closing his own eyes, Wedge pictured the Airstream Falcon sparkling along the highway, pulled behind his Chevy. Her white enamel its own prism of velocity.

Wedge left his pair of friends, each in their own way generous to him, to their moment and wished them well. If ever a man could somehow distill the elusive spectrum, could treasure it without locking it away, it was Han Solo.

Janson's face appeared in the pass-through. "Mother of pearl!"

"Mother. Of. _God,_ Wes!" Suzette hollered. "Seven! Letters!"

Wedge stood up, tore the Canyon from the _Geographic,_ and squared it into his back Levi's pocket. He moved toward the kitchen; it was quiet, a good time to find Chewie and have a conversation. He clapped his best friend, Wes, his almost-brother, on the shoulder as he passed.

"It's _abalone,_ " Wedge Antilles said.


	71. Chapter 71

December 12, 1958. Han got called to the phone at the hangar. He felt a spark of nerves to hear that buzzing, now that Leia was pregnant. She had been fine when he left, Han reminded himself, not allowing his gait to break into a jog across the cement floor—she was fine, tumbled asleep among their quilts. He'd planned to make her a birthday breakfast but all Leia could handle right now was lukewarm ginger tea and cold dry toast, so he'd left those by the bed for when she woke up. Kissed her behind her ear, light, so as not to disturb her. She needed her sleep.

The caller was Luke. He was stranded at the airport in Indianapolis. Han glanced at the skylight above the hangar's metal beams— _what the hell?_ The sky looked great, blue and crisp. It wasn't the weather, Luke explained. Just delayed takeoff from New York, which made him miss the only New Hope connector until the end of the week. "I thought I'd rent a car," Luke said as though he were still considering it, "but the roads aren't good, and even then I'd miss the fete." A delicate pause. "Han, listen: I'm not worried about me, I'll grab a motel room for a few days. But I just called Leia to tell her, and..."

On the other end of the connection Luke could feel Han's attention, already sharpened by Luke's dilemma, hone itself to _Leia-setting_. And Luke was grateful, though he knew Leia could look after herself; she poked him sharply whenever he dared call her his baby sister. Still, it was a comfort Luke would never admit to Leia that said sister was in the lifelong company of a man so adamantly and capably attuned to her safety.

"And what?" The pay-phone connection crackled, as though reporting the spike in Han's always considerable energy. "She seem okay?"

"Oh, you know Leia, Han: she _said_ she was fine."

"Uh- _huh._ "

Chewing his tongue, Luke mulled over his impressions. Normally, he would believe Leia _was_ fine if she said so, even if their birthday party was disrupted, or cancelled. Leia was certainly not operatic about being celebrated. It was true that the date had taken on more poignancy now that the twins knew their true origins and orientation to one another. But even accounting for that, Leia had sounded different. Somehow Luke knew, outside of anything Leia said, even with her voice filled with only sympathy and understanding for his plight, that his twin was...fragile? Luke frowned, running the inky pads of his fingers along the cool glass of the phone booth. No. _Fragile_ wasn't the word, ever, for Leia. But.

"She'd even _sound_ fine, to just about anyone else, but she—I dunno Han, I feel like she—"

Like she was altered. Luke sensed new vulnerability in his twin, something she was reining in with her stern self-discipline. He knew Leia disliked the unknown, that she sometimes treated her feelings as weakness. Before he knew what he was saying Luke blurted: "It's like Leia's set to some new frequency."

Luke thought he heard the smallest intake of Han Solo's breath. But Han left Luke no time to interrogate this analysis.

"Kid, you sit tight," Han ordered. "You hear me? Stay put."

XXXXXXXXXX

Luke Skywalker sat in the lounge of the Indianapolis airport amid a large group of young female travellers. They each wore the same trim suit, pink nubby wool with white gloves and shoes, _Petal Miss_ stitched over the heart. The monochrome conformity was intriguing to Luke's artist's eye. Older than him, they'd taken pity on the sweetly handsome, stranded birthday boy, inviting him to join their table. Naturally affable and curious about people, Luke was happy to accept.

They were headed to the Petal Misses Pageant in Minneapolis, someone explained. A contest open only to _decent young ladies,_ a tall brunette named Liz added, with an ironic toss of hair, to general laughter. The women were all college students, competing in pageants to win scholarships. Some of the women were bright and sunny, some friendly and funny, some shy, some studious, some aloof, some flirtatious, some a little frantic with correctness. Luke was struck anew by the contrast between their personalities and courses of study and the enforced uniformity of their dress.

A flask made surreptitious rounds; the girls nearest Luke added cherry schnapps to their coffees and Cokes. They liked that Luke was an art student, they said. They admired his hipster shearling jacket, his fisherman's sweater and corduroy trousers, what he and his classmates were all wearing in the Greenwich Village coffeehouses. They loved the quick, clever caricatures of their faces Luke drew on paper napkins when someone heckled, _You're an artist? Prove it, Blondie._ They tucked the sketches away in their purses, saying that someday, he'd be famous.

Finally, Luke shook out his hand and leaned back in his chair, letting its upholstered back tap against the wall, idly listening to the radio blaring above the snack bar. A new record dropped, something the DJ called "Surfing Drums." Intrigued as ever by new music, Luke noticed it didn't seem to have much in the way of drums, and its teasing riff, its rolling, rough bass and horns, suggested nothing so wholesome as Pacific fun.

Suddenly the bevy of rebellious Petal Misses turned as one, like flowers toward some moving sun. Luke followed their myriad expressions—arch, sly, stunned, hungry, bemused—to the tall figure, in a dark blue parka, who'd just loped through the lounge's double doors. A couple of the women looked skeptical, at least one hostile, but none of them looked _bored_ as an aviator-sunglassed Han Solo emerged from a fur-lined hood. Shaking his thick sandy hair more than was _strictly_ necessary, Luke thought, as he bumped his chair to the ground in shocked delight.

"Lollipop, _lolli_ pop," sang Cynthia, the most boisterous Petal. There were giggles; obviously the song was some sort of private joke, or signal.

As Han stood, hands on his lean hips, and scanned the lounge as though from atop a peak he'd conquered, Luke rose and left the pink cloud that had welcomed him. Walking backwards as he had those years ago along the road, Luke stuck out his thumb. Han beamed before his face resumed its regularly scheduled public affect. And then he moved forward, his loose, lanky walk and slow grin shamelessly suited to the filthy rhythm on the radio.

Luke knew that women dug his brother-in-law, had understood _that_ the second Leia watched Han's lithe wet climb from that garden bin at Starwood. But this, the thing that had the Petals peering slyly through their cake-mascara and tucking tongues into the corners of bright lips, was something other. Today Han seemed electric and vivid, extra-present. Extra- _living._ As though he was riding that wavelength of the universe that Luke had always sensed and Professor Yoda spoke of, too. With Han this rightness often revealed itself in the body—seemed to symbolize, at this instant, sex. Of course it probably didn't hurt that Han...looked like Han, Luke conceded with a fond wryness _._

"Hey, kid," Han called, as he approached, as Luke approached him, as they opened their arms to one another. "Need a lift?"

Han pulled his vintage aviator sunglasses, a gift from Leia, off with what Ben would have called _excessive revelation._ And the irreplaceable glasses slipped from his long fingers, his face vaudeville shock. With curses so blue that Petals snickered over their spiked nickel coffees, Han lunged after the tumbling glasses. Like a flamingo on one long striped leg, he somehow snatched them before they could hit the tile and shatter. The female applause was ironic and appreciative; Han closed his eyes in obvious relief, glasses in one hand, still bent at the waist. Cynthia wolf-whistled at his posture.

Han straightened with no blush at all, tucked the sunglasses away and pulled Luke into his arms.

"Thanks, Han," Luke mumbled, overcome, into the larger man's embrace, into the stiff waxed canvas of Han's jacket.

"Yeah, well." Han said, squeezing Luke's shoulders. He pushed Luke to arm's length, shaking him playfully. "Didn't do it for _you,_ Junior. Nothin' spoils my girl's birthday." Han grabbed Luke's suitcase, slung his art satchel across his back. Waving his gratitude and goodbyes and good wishes to the Petal Misses, Luke juggled his festively wrapped parcels. "C'mon," Han barked over his shoulder, already on the move. "Docking bay 94."

"Take care of that adorable boy," one of the women called.

"Which one?" another retorted.

And then Stella and Margie and Annette, a trio of choral majors, opened into "Lollipop" in a gorgeous round. In their supple, trained voices the silly song became so pure and powerful that it ecstatically raised the hair on Luke's arms. He closed his eyes into the warmth and beauty of human sound, into the unexpected manifestation of the creative force that never failed to move him.

Han stalked back and gripped Luke by the collar, dragging him off. As they left the lounge, Han poked a finger inside his mouth and forced it from his lips with a loud farewell _pop._

They rode a wave of song and laughter and catcalls all the way out of the airport.

XXXXXXXXXX

"You're navigator." Han said, pointing at Luke in the rear seat of the sunny Cessna cockpit. Luke saw Doc's lip twitch in indulgence as his protegé adjusted his headset. The earphones brought to Luke's mind a flashing memory of how Breha had arranged Leia's hair as a tiny child. His heart cramped to think he'd see his sister on their birthday after all, that they'd go to the fete: Leia hadn't been the only one disappointed at their separation.

Doc observed Han's pre-flight check. Belting himself in, Luke glanced at the boxes strapped carefully into place in the cargo hold behind his seat. "Say, what's all that?"

"Contraband, kid," Han drawled, not looking up from his panels. "We're smugglers. Reefer madness. Don't touch."

The older man snorted. "It's mistletoe, Luke."

"Han," Luke gestured at the seasonal shipment. "You need all this to get Leia to kiss you?"

Sly gleam of white teeth. "Leia kisses me _just_...fine." Twisting in his seat, kid-gloved fingers still on a toggle switch, Han peered above his sunglasses in lazy threat. "That really a chat you wanna have, big brother?"

"...no." Luke grimaced, held up his palms, pleading for mercy: _"Uncle."_

Han's eyes sparked on Luke's. And then Han turned away, back to his instrument panels, grinning to himself in some private delight.

"Punch it," Doc said.

XXXXXXXXXX

It was a _trip,_ Luke thought in his beatnik vernacular. It was such a trip to see Han, headset on, slick aviator sunglasses, _flying a plane._ Han, a pilot! They rose through striations of blue and white and gray, clouds melting and shredding around the windows. Luke stared, enthralled. He'd never flown in a plane quite this small, and certainly never with his brother-in-law at the helm. Still, Luke felt deeply safe. For all his barbed tongue and strut, it was clear Han approached his work, and his teacher, with meticulous respect. The dynamic between Han and Doc wasn't the same as the one between himself and Ben had been, not the way he was now with Yoda, Luke reflected. But in his own practical, tactile way, Han was just as zealous, just as faithful an apprentice.

Soon enough, far, far down, Luke glimpsed his sleepy hometown. Fleecy fields, belts of evergreen; the mirror of Alder Lake, silver ribbon of the Kessel River. Slowly, and then faster, New Hope rose to meet them. The landing was smooth, wheels touching down so surely Luke barely felt it, just saw the ground made actual and level again. Luke marvelled at how swiftly the real world resumed itself.

Doc raised woolly brows. "Son," he said, clapping Han's shoulder. "That's your best one yet."

"Aaaaaahhh," Han scoffed. He meant to be cocky, but his cheekbones flushed. "I was inspired."

Luke knew his brother well enough to recognize that he was bursting with pleasure at his beautiful flight, at Doc's praise. _Son._ God, Han seemed almost supernaturally happy, Luke thought, whistling as they collected Luke's bag and boxes and walked together across the runway, then through the hangar to the parking lot. As they passed Han was shouted out by his colleagues and hailed them back, fielded and lobbed smart remarks, laughed at Luke's stories, strode with purpose and self-possession. He looked like some matinee hero, but his face was open.

 _Some kid'll be proud, someday,_ Luke thought wistfully, _to call him their father._

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Luke followed Han around the Bluebell Grocery, pushing the cart as Han prowled the aisles. Tossing things upon things, it seemed to Luke, and not choices that followed any apparent logic. Three boxes of saltines. Vitamin pills. Mandarin oranges, shredded wheat. Ginger ale. Ginger beer. Ginger tea. Peppermint tea. Sugared ginger candy. Peppermint candy. Peppermint Wrigley's chewing gum.

"Expecting company?" Luke asked, dryly, at all the weird extra food, the three loaves of bread, the gallon of milk. He meant himself as the guest—but Han gave him a look, cryptic and appraising. Then Han smiled to himself in that way he'd always had, but now, Luke saw, this habit was warmer, as though the private voice Han communed with wasn't his own, anymore. No longer weary, cynical, singular. And if anyone knew what it looked like to have an ongoing mental conversation with Leia Organa, it was Luke Skywalker.

Loading paper bags into the truck, Luke's eye fell on a can of the Campbell's chicken noodle soup that Luke remembered Breha feeding him and Leia whenever they stayed home from school.

"Is Leia sick?"

"...nah, kid," Han said carefully, as they got into the cab. Leaning across the bench seat Han slipped a sleeve of saltines into the glove compartment, next to the flask, atop the maps and small backup tools.

Luke cocked his head. "Never heard of crackers for shock."

Han gave an elliptical shrug and knocked the top off a Coke against the steering wheel, handed it to Luke. One for himself, stuck between his thighs. Han turned the keys. Luke turned on the radio.

The brothers harmonized badly, gleeful with conspiracy, all the way to Alder Glen, and Leia.

XXXXXXXXXX

The cabin had grown into a little house. Cared for, detailed. The trim and sills had new paint, and the chimney looked re-mortared. There was a holiday wreath made of antique glass baubles on the bright red door; Annie, of course, Luke thought. Inside smelled wonderfully of Chewie's sugar cookies. He'd been baking all week to stock his booth at tonight's fete—cookies, cakes, pies both savory and sweet—and all his loved ones received extra dough. Setting down grocery bags, kicking off his boots, Luke felt still more pleasant sense of homecoming.

A radio was on. Luke heard "Baby Please Come Home" begin and smiled into the serendipity of the universe.

"Princess!" Han hollered as he stripped off his coat. "Look who I picked up by the side of the road!"

Leia came from her small office, wiping typewriter ink on her apron. When she saw Luke she stopped short, her hand rising to her mouth. Han melted into a grin as Leia ran to her brother, pulling him into her arms.

"Happy birthday, Leia," Luke murmured, closing his eyes, squeezing her back.

His twin nodded hard against his shoulder, making a choked sound, then seeming almost exasperated with herself. Overwhelmed. When she stepped back Leia blinked rapidly, touched her hair, smoothed her sweater. "Not a bad bit of rescuing, huh?" Han crowed. He swept his wife into his arms and danced her, laughing, around the room to the pop Christmas carol, her slippers on his huge sock-feet. Looping her arms at his neck, Leia looked up at Han with glowing eyes as her laughter trailed off and he winked at her, hand bridging the dip of her lower back. Luke thought Han would let himself be locked in a tomb of snakes to see Leia smile like that, to have her eyes on him like that. The couple looked at one another so moony and long in their swaying embrace that Luke finally dropped his bag with a thump and went to the kitchen. When Luke came back they were kissing into the swell of the song, eyes closed in some gospel rapture like he wasn't even—

"Hey," Luke said, through a mouthful of cookie. "Jeez. It's my birthday, too."

No response—well, not to him.

"It was my birthday _first,_ " he said.

XXXXXXXXXX

When Luke and Leia were children, the Organas took them to the Christmas fete every year for their birthday. Anakin Skywalker was always deliberately away from New Hope on that date, and so Luke got to stay over with them, even when he was older. The modern event supported the New Hope Women's and Children's hospital, a recent satellite of the big general hospital in Mantell.

Local businesses set up booths in Endor Park, provided their wares and skills, all money received going to the Obstetrics Department of the NHWC—or, as the dedication plaque named it, the Amidala Wing. It hadn't taken Luke and Leia long to settle on the name they were allowed to bestow when they turned the huge lump sum over to the hospital. It hadn't taken long for them to make the donation, either; Carlist Rieekan had filed a civil suit on the behalf of the Organa family against Empire, to keep the money from being reabsorbed, to bust the company's funds before it could reform into some further ugly conglomerate. Jeb Hutt had been assassinated in jail, Anakin Skywalker and Erin Isolder were dead, but it was never proven criminally whether Empire was responsible for the fire that killed Leia's parents. The civil trial found in her favor. She was awarded an amount that broke the spine of Empire forever. And Luke had inherited from his father. Both siblings were relieved to have it over; neither could imagine keeping the tainted money. And so they put it all into the hospital, run by Dr. Martha Kalonia and employing Shara Bey. The kind of place where a woman, married or not, young or not, could learn to prevent the conception of, as well as give birth to, a baby in safety and dignity.

Chewie's baking booth boomed so hard he couldn't leave for hours—but this was Chewie's trifecta of bliss, being outside in the trees while working, and for what he called _righteous liberation._ Annie, Lando and Willa ran a candy booth, where Luke sculpted a snow Lando, grandly caped and carved. When Han saw it he laughed so hard his eyes curved almost closed and he doubled over. Lando knew it was a fond joke and didn't care, he loved his statue without irony. Got Han to take his picture with it and Luke, Luke beaming with sass and earnestness.

Teenagers ran, giddy, from booth to booth in their slippery saddle shoes, pelting each other with plush prizes until the whole park seemed like some teddy bear village. There was an antique carousel at the center of the park. Riding it was tradition, for Luke and Leia; the same two horses, every year. Shara got on too, taking sleepy Poe in a chariot in front of Luke and Leia's mounts. Han stayed back, throwing darts at balloons with Kes. At first the ride was just as it had always been; Leia on her silver appaloosa on the outside, Luke on his palomino on the inside track. Laughing, joking, Luke using his portable camera and passing it around, Leia stretching for the brass ring she would never have the length to reach. But suddenly Leia sat back in the saddle with a narrow look, and then...dread? Even in the multicolored neon light Luke could see she had gone sallow.

"Leia?" Luke asked, just as his twin, her face pinched, dismounted her horse and walked quickly, unsteadily against the clockwise spin of the carousel. Shara looked up from her son as Leia hurried past, down the wobbling metal stairs to the ground. Luke turned to the nurse. "What—"

Shara looked thoughtful, but kept silent.

Luke swung from his horse and followed his sister, who was almost running now towards the dense treeline edging the park. When he called after her Leia frantically waved him off, and Luke realized she was going to be sick. Knowing his dignified twin, Luke left her to the privacy of the cedars.

As Luke walked back towards the group—Shara had joined Kes and Han, Poe asleep now in his father's arms—Han's face sharpened to see him alone. "Where's Leia?"

Luke gestured at the trees. "Well,"

Han gave him such a scathing look that Luke felt he could turn to ash where he stood. "I thought she was with you."

Flustered—Leia was an adult, and it wasn't as though he'd left her on some battlefield—Luke laughed. "Han. The horse didn't _throw_ her—"

Han stalked off. He snapped a clean icicle from a tree branch as he went.

XXXXXXXXXX

At the close of the night, after the main fete had shut down, a music-and-beer booth appeared at the end of the park, set farther into the trees. A makeshift booth, not official; more a hut, old bedsheets draped over bark-rough poles sunk into the snow, Christmas lights strung in the branches above. Space heaters. Under this canopy, a rickety stage of slat pallets where the act billing themselves as Rogue Squadron played. Wedge was strapped with his acoustic guitar, Kes his father's banjo, Wes Janson revealing a lovely, strong tenor. They took requests to support the hospital, a quarter a lager, fifty cents a song; Chewie acted as bartender, and change rang silvery into his stockpot. Some songs they made a hash of—it was rough to pull off the hard-driving "Jailhouse Rock" with chilled fingers, but Antilles did it, stoic as ever before the cheers of the crowd. Kes was dextrous on the banjo, and Janson was a natural entertainer who flirted with the chrome microphone, improvised absurd lyrics, and told goofy jokes. "Yakety Yak" with Chewie on washboard and Suzette on harmonica (who knew?) became a raucous call-and-response with the crowd.

Then Han folded a twenty-dollar bill into a surprisingly airworthy paper plane and soared it over heads into the money pot, demanding "Happy Birthday" twice in a row—with an intermission of about eight minutes, give or take. Laughing, Luke slung his arm around Han's broad back, fingers grazing Leia's arm, feeling Han's own arm settle from its plane-throw onto his shoulders; tucked into Han's other side Leia laughed too, then continued her careful chewing of peppermint gum. Han grinned down at her, customarily pleased with himself. Janson stage-riffed about the exorbitant amount: _Han Solo is in it_ _ **only**_ _for the money, ladies and gentlemen_ to loud laughter _,_ until Solo heckled back in his carrying voice, _Bring it to nine ball, clown._ Laughing again, Luke rolled his eyes. Han _still_ couldn't admit to his own generosity.

The birthday song turned into a kind of tribal extended jam, until drunken citizens of New Hope were dancing and throwing Luke into the air. No one even tried it on Leia. Luke wasn't sure if this physical respect was due to her innate regal containment, or the way her husband's eyes could go hard and gray. Probably some formidable combination, Luke figured, as he was tossed toward the stars.

But it wasn't until Willa requested "True Love Ways" (not to be outdone by Han, Lando threw in a fifty), pushing Donna forward, that revelry became memory Luke Skywalker would hold close for the rest of his life. The red and white lights cast a glow so pink through the tent that it seemed warming. It could have been a cornball moment, it could have smothered the whole night flat, but the arrangement was so spare, so stripped, as to be poignant. Wes Janson showed an affecting restraint, an unexpected artistic taste. He let himself weave around and accent the far more talented Donna rather than try to sing in tandem with her. And Donna's voice was so rich and encompassing that as you listened it was impossible to imagine ever feeling cold again. To Luke, mellow and expansive and tipsy, leaning companionably on Chewie, it seemed that these lifted voices, the homey pluck of banjo and the clean strum of Wedge's chords provided all anyone needed in the world.

As though pulled by still more warmth, Luke looked to his side, to where Han and Leia stood, slightly removed now from the group. Han had his arm around Leia's shoulders, his nose in her hair, his eyes softer than Luke had ever seen them. Tonight, though, Han had a new...lethality as well as a new tenderness. And just as Luke had this thought he saw Han's broad hand steal into Leia's open coat, easily spanning her flat skirt-front, and she settled her head against his chest.

 _Oh,_ Luke thought, and blinked back a sudden salt sting. _Oh._

Leia heard him. Leia turned, saw Luke and smiled her happiness.

XXXXXXXXXX

Luke spent their birthday night at Alder Glen. He'd check into the Bespin in the morning. It was late when they got back from the fete but Leia, struck with a bout of energy and inspiration that Han told Luke was normal for her lately, came down from bed to her typewriter in her nightgown and her father's robe. From her office, the staccato clatter of typing came in fits and starts. Both men heard a furious "Oh, you _pisser!_ " and Han shook his head, grinning into the fire. He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. "I never get tired of that," he confided.

Luke sipped his hot chocolate. "So," Luke asked dryly. "What's new?"

Both men laughed.

"Yeah! Yeah." Running his palm over his armrest, Han blew out a breath. "Yeah..."

" _Yeah._ " Luke smiled at Han. "Hey, that's a big deal."

"C'mon, Luke," Han was grinning again, but his knee bobbed in agitation. " _You're_ not supposed to tell me that. You're supposed to tell me somethin' about, all of life in a raindrop..."

"That's more Chewie's bag."

Han's lip twitched at the lingo: _bag?_ but he let it pass. "Naaaah, Chewie'll tell me to build a crib outta the ribs of an elk."

Luke was helpless with laughter. Then, gentler: "You're looking to me for wisdom? I don't have any children."

"You sure?"

"Yes!" Luke flushed. "I mean—yes."

Han cocked an eyebrow over his whiskey tumbler. "Be _sure_ sure, kid."

"I am. Geez." Luke was equal parts mortified and bemused. He leaned over and slapped Han's knee. "Hey, look at you. You're doing great at this _dad_ stuff so far."

Han smiled, but a little weakly as he audibly sucked scotch from his lip. "See: it ain't like there's anyone to ask," Han said at last, lifting a laconic shoulder, but his eyes on the fire were troubled.

"It's true," Luke said, then gestured around the warm, clean, cozy space, filled with Leia's books and things Han had made and fixed, framed photographs, the painting of Millie Luke had given Han for a birthday. At the comforting drinks and plates with the remains of the traditional white chocolate-lemon birthday cake that Chewie had somehow, secretly, found the time to bake amongst everything else he was making. The room filling now, again, with the rattle and ping of Leia's typewriter. "But here we all are." Luke saluted fate with his hot chocolate. His blue eyes were bright. "So think of how much better off _your_ child will be, right from birth."

Han knocked back the last of his drink.

"The day I met you I had this feeling," Luke went on. "I thought, wow, that guy just...figures it out." He shook his head. "I thought: _that_ guy is a man."

Throwing Luke a guarded look, Han braced as though for a punchline. Luke smiled his wide, serene smile. "Still do."

Han's firelit face was inscrutable. But he reached over, palmed Luke's blond head, and pushed gratefully back and forth.


	72. Chapter 72

February 18, 1959. Sitting at her desk, chin in hand, Leia watched for the shadow of the owl that lived in the fir outside her office window. It was nearly midnight; Han away two days in Minneapolis, she was taking a break from her work. Now that she was past the worst of the sickness and attacks of sleepiness, Leia felt a humming energy that set her briskly awake at odd hours. It was both her own power, and not merely her own. Mysterious. She was doing her own research, now, reading through Indiana archives in search of patterns, connections. But watching for the owl, she was thinking of her first job. Deaths, marriages. Engagements.

Births.

Leia ran her fingertips not over her belly but the satiny mahogany of her desk. The beehive, Han called her office, claiming he could hear and see ideas zinging all through the house when Leia was working. And now Leia pictured a tiny hive of bonding, industrious cells: Han's and hers and from these a third person formed, someone else, some unimaginable other self. Little sphinx. She did try to imagine nonetheless. It hurt Leia each time she remembered to subtract Bail Organa from the equation—though only genetically, she staunchly reminded herself, settling deeper into his robe. Bail was forever her father, and his imprint would be made in example. She didn't know where to factor Padmé or Breha. Leia outright refused to consider Anakin Skywalker. All the best of him was in her brother.

And Han's own lineage was a mystery; there was that time he'd called himself a _nickel screwbag._ And he had said it lightly, even laughing, but to Leia his self-appellation was cruel—the negligible monetary value, the _screw_ in context of Han's own lack of father. She figured it was some crude dock slang for illegitimate children, and even if it was Han's right to refer to himself however he chose, Leia found it awful. It still troubled her: nickel screwbag? _Han?_ Unique Han, so precious to her!

XXXXXXXXXX

The sun was shining, the wind high and cleansing, teasing a greenness. But the parking lot of the hardware store was dotted yet with patches of rotting ice. At nearly five months along, Leia found herself at similar in-between. She hadn't felt any movement yet, but she was showing; she wasn't immobile, but she was no longer nimble. The maternity dresses Priscilla had special-ordered for her still looked absurd, but she'd outgrown her own trim wardrobe. Now that she was out of the _Gazette_ offices Leia mostly wore Han's flannel work-shirts, his thermal t-shirts, and her new skirts with expandable panels. Her temperature ran so much higher lately that Leia did not bother with her jacket.

Eyeing the slick patches of pavement, Han slotted Leia into his side in that way he had—it _was_ possessive, but so was the way Leia looped her own arm at his neat waist. He wasn't the smothering, nervous father-to-be of comic strips and comedies, but it was Han, not Leia, who first spotted the shift in her center of gravity, and worked to counterbalance it. He sold his care so irresistibly that Leia could not bristle at it; maybe it was Han's conspiratorial smile as he pulled her close to borrow his sureness of stride.

Inside the hardware store, mellow creaking floor strewn with wood shavings, Leia idly browsed as Han studied the lumber slotted into the lowest shelves. He rambled the aisles, remaining close enough that she could hear his occasional words, musing and critical, as he knelt to pull boards and planks. Hefting, frowning, considering. He took this project extra-seriously; the kid's crib, Han said last week, when Leia asked him what he was sketching in bed.

On a shelf of notions, knobs and pulls, Leia's eye fell on a wire bin full of small cellophane packets. Each sleeve contained miscellaneous attachments: nuts, bolts, screws and washers, wingnuts, even skeleton keys. Each priced at five cents. The pieces were remainders, Leia realized, spilled from packages, extras from kits. Parts of no clear provenance, but sturdy, bright and useful. Leia looked at Han kneeling at the end of the aisle, knocking his wedding band against a panel.

 _Nickel screwbag._

It wasn't an insult Han had levelled at himself, it was just his bluntness combined with the world he lived in, the world of practical utility, of adaptation. You tossed your coin and got what you got. It was exactly what Han Solo would select as genetic metaphor. Leia looked at her husband, listened to him: changeable eyes, clever fingers, unruly hair falling over his forehead; long legs bent to bring him closer to his materials. Low mumblings over quick, pencilled calculations. _Han._ His attributes beloved and known to her, forever foreign in origin.

But collections of ephemera weren't just Han, Leia considered. They were everyo—

Leia felt it then, the light struggle in her middle. Stopping in the aisle, she closed her eyes and tried to focus the way Luke did, when he was working to perceive something clearly. But Leia didn't see Luke, and she didn't see her baby. Who she saw was her mother: Breha, before an easel. Breha, who seemed to see Leia in return. Her face knowing and tender. And then she vanished, taking the friendly tremor with her.

She opened her eyes. Han's attention was on a length of sunny maple. And then the feeling came back stronger, a travelling quiver. Leia gasped; Han's look snapped to her.

"Sweetheart?" He stood, smooth and quick. She wondered then at his six-plus feet, where that came from, how that would translate. He moved down the aisle to her in three long strides, brow rumpled in concern and then in surprise as she seized his wrist and pressed his huge palm to her side. Han's grin flickered quick and perplexed, his eyes on Leia's, and then blazed full-strength.

" _Hey,_ " he said.

Leia nodded. "Isn't it—"

"Cool."

" _Weird,_ " she said.

Han laughed quietly. His eyes moved to his own roving hands, calibrating their reception on her. "What brought it on?"

"Well, there's not a window or intercom system, so..."

He snorted; Leia forced back her own defensive irreverence, closed her eyes again. Let herself yield, just a little, to the vision of her mother before she tucked it away. Leia looked down at her hand, finding the back of Han's. "You tell _me_ what brought it on, Hotshot. I was looking at you."

" _I_ was looking at wood." Han looked thoughtful. "Tiger maple. Maybe I was choosing wrong."

Biting her lip, Leia shrugged. There was a last barrage of joyful carbonation; Han and Leia started as one, sharing a stunned bright laugh.

"Okay. Okay, kid," Han said. "You got it. Maple it is."

XXXXXXXXXX

Han woke, sometimes, in the night to find her in a pool of light from the turquoise goose-neck standing lamp. In her rocking chair in the corner of the loft, scribbling wildly, feet tapping the floor as though setting a rhythm for her pen to follow. He could feel the change in Leia's energy, as though her whole being was consumed in furious creativity, her body knitting their baby, her brain knitting away at her book. He angled an elbow behind his head and watched her, his heart full.

He was glad she was past the illness. Leia didn't want to eat anything for the longest time—or what seemed, to Han's concerned mind, like the longest time. Months. He tried to tempt her with her favorites, but coffee and raspberry pancakes made her gag, and even the lemon pie he brought her from the diner on his way home from work sat uneaten. Leia lived on saltines and ginger tea. But then, one March morning at five, Leia woke him, starved. She wanted scrambled eggs. Han couldn't get out of bed fast enough, get the frying pan on the flame fast enough, he made her a mountain of the stuff. Leia growled at Han when he tried to share her breakfast. Ah, he'd teased her about that for an hour after, growling back at her as he shaved for work, rabid through a froth of menthol.

All that spring of '59, she wanted eggs. Eggs and buttered toast, all the time. Scrambled, fried, omelets—Han got Chewie to teach him how to poach. And when Chewie asked if he could raise laying hens on their land, Han had the damn coop and wire run built in two days flat. Chewie stocked it with birds with fancy names that Leia loved: Rosecombs and Redcaps, Sicilian Buttercups. Their clucking reminded Han of Cecil but you couldn't argue with the results: eating their eggs and the Swedish rye bread Chewie baked just for her, Leia's color returned, her body rapidly changed.

And she changed with it. That spring Leia was sexy and rounded and demanding. She had the curves of a goddess, the primal imperiousness of a goddess, posing delightful challenge to Han's stamina and imagination. She'd never been reticent, not in sex or anything else, but now Leia afforded her satisfaction supreme status, issuing orders in a way that both turned Han wildly on and made him laugh out loud. She'd show up in his workshop, she'd interrupt him under the hood of his truck. Leia exuded power, ripe and heady, writing fifteen pages in one day then pulling Han into the house by his workshirt collar. She didn't even let him shower, liked him a little sweaty from the hangar, engine grease and everything else. Once tugging him straight to the wooden floor, just inside the still-open door.

Han liked it so much that he felt a worry—was it okay, to go on as they were? Hell, what did he know? It was like she was under some spell and Han didn't want it to end but at the same time he didn't want— This concern he blurted out in the sunny kitchen one April morning, just before he went out the door for work at a literal run because they'd stayed so long in bed. Again.

In her thin cotton polka-dot dressing gown, sheer over her gorgeous nakedness, Leia didn't laugh at him, thank Christ, though her lips twitched. Neatly she fit her serrated spoon into a segment of grapefruit. "Martha said it's fine. Encouraged, even." Leia looked back at the _Gazette,_ tapped it with a finger. _Speaking of what we don't know about having babies,_ she added—Leia was kind to use _we,_ but Han was pretty sure she'd read everything on the subject already— there was an obstetrician who had made a film for prospective parents. He was in town to screen it next month, at the New Hope Community Church. Did Han want to go? They could visit the diner after.

 _A flick? Chewie's? Sure Sweetheart, fine._ Han stuffed the last of his toast in his mouth as he pulled on his dark blue Levi's jacket, grabbed his lunchbox and kissed Leia's forehead as she diligently penned the date into her desk calendar. Flattened his hand on her belly, tapped a little Morse code—dit dit dit. Felt the taps back, also always in sets of three. He imagined simple, tri-syllable communications: _Have fun kid._ _Okay dad._ Han Solo would never have admitted such fancies to anyone else, even his wife. And he never did, but he never forgot them, either.

XXXXXXXXXX

May 22, 1959. Leia wore an elegant wide-collared navy coat-dress that buttoned under her breasts and then swung loose over the swell of her belly, baring her shapely calves. Tan high-heeled shoes, seamed stockings. Red lipstick and black-winged eyes, the pearl earrings Han had brought her from Minneapolis because they reminded him of her skin. Her hair pinned up in a sleek bump.

"You look pretty," Han said in the truck, not even caring at his earnestness. She sure did, and she smelled nice too, rosy as her color. He trailed his knuckles along the bared back of Leia's neck as he drove. The air through Millie's open windows felt fresh, alive, a respite after all the dirty snow of the long winter. Han felt in high spirits, as he always did when the weather warmed. They'd see this...whatever it was, baby flick? They had to watch reels like that sometimes at work—well, not about kids, more about industrial first aid and—useful, anyway. Help them both feel more equipped. And then they'd stop by Chewie's and get some dinner. Maybe catch a real flick after—Willa Calrissian had loved _Pillow Talk_ —if Leia wasn't too tired.

Leia hadn't been sleeping lately, turning laboriously in search of comfort, kid kicking her mercilessly awake when she found it. She didn't complain. Complaining wasn't Leia's style, and anyway, she said, she liked the kicks. In fact when she declared this Leia seemed almost at pains to reassure Han, though he certainly wouldn't expect that she like being pregnant one goddamn bit. It was an experience they'd chosen to embark on together, but—hell, why would Leia be required to _like_ any of it? (He was pretty sure she liked the sex.) Han did believe her, though, about the kicks. Leia was no liar, and yes, she admitted, she was tired—but the nightly battery felt so cheerful and excitable to her that she couldn't resent it.

Sleep-deprived or not, Leia was cheerful, too, on the drive. Excited to get out of the house—she hadn't been into town much, focused on making headway into her research and too uncomfortable for the vigorous hikes that she'd gone on during the early-middle months. She was cheerful enough walking into the church, cheerful talking to Shara Bey and Martha Kalonia, seated across the room with the hospital staff. Cheerful when she sat down and Han got Dixie cups of fizzy punch, made of orange juice and club soda and some kind of sickly syrup.

The lights dimmed and Leia opened her latest red leather pocket notebook with tiny attached gold pen (Luke put a blank one in her stocking every Christmas). With careless utility Han found terrifically sexy, she uncapped the pen with her white teeth. Sat poised and keen as the brilliant seeker she was. But as the film unspooled Leia grew impatient, then incredulous. It wasn't necessarily visible to anyone else—this wasn't the obvious fretfulness that came on sometimes, now, at seven months when Leia was tired, or hungry—an animal overriding of all her immaculate manners. No, this was the rolling simmer of Leia's anger.

It could have been the film's assertion that there was no serious pain in labor, that the doctor worked harder than the woman in question. Or the suggestion that, during the last month of pregnancy, a wife stock her freezer with meals for her husband, in preparation for her absence from her position— _position?,_ Leia hissed—as though a stay in the maternity ward were some vacation. But if he had to guess—Han was a betting man—if he had to guess what swept Leia all the way from irritation to rage, it was when the instructions on what to pack in a hospital bag: lipstick, nail varnish, a special nightie. As the narration put it: _The things that make a lady feel pretty._

XXXXXXXXXX

When the lights came up there he was at the front of the church, the bigshot doctor, some Brylcreemed smarm with a smile that reminded Han of Threkin Horm. He was carrying some book he'd written himself like a bible under his arm. There was enthusiastic applause throughout the crowd—though not, Han noted, from that scowling girl in the corner, or that woman managing to knit booties as though her needles could become spears; in the front pew Shara and Dr. Kalonia and the rest regarded Dr. Burriss with professional scorn.

And then, the question period. Burriss moved in his fancy suit up the aisle. Quick and jaunty in his supple leather shoes, like any huckster selling vacuums or salvation. Han, who knew a snake-oil salesman when he saw him, tensed at the way the doctor's cold eyes swept the group of pregnant women. He spotted, from the corner of the stage, what looked like a subtle film camera lens. More salesman footage. Smoothly he ignored all the raised hands: Burriss was looking for just the right prop to illustrate his points. His eyes flashed on Leia, whose arms were decidedly folded.

 _Fool, don't do it_.

Dr. Burriss picked Leia. Han exhaled, lifting a hand in minute dismissal of the man. Well, you would choose Leia for your testimonial, wouldn't you, on paper? The perfect young mother-to-be, studiously holding her notes. Most beautiful woman in the room, Han firmly knew, dressed like the cover of a magazine. A clown like Burriss wouldn't perceive the subversive curve to her eyebrow. You'd have to know her like Han Solo to see the danger in the set of her chin. You'd have to be as close as him—close enough to know that in her book, under the heading _Film Notes,_ Leia Organa had written _fuck you_ in her neat script _._

Briskly Leia stood, flipping her notebook shut, smoothing her navy dress over her high belly. The smile she beamed on the doctor was as pearly as her earrings, and Burriss smiled back—genuinely, just a moment, genuinely charmed, drawn unwittingly by Leia's charisma. Han guessed he was going easy on her when he hit his camera mark and lobbed her the softball questions: "Now how about you, Madam? All ready for baby? Onesies? Packed your lipstick?"

"Right next to my revolver," Leia said. She seized her purse and swept up the aisle.

XXXXXXXXXX

Han strode after Leia as she struggled down the sidewalk. She had her arms around herself. She used to wrap them around her waist, when she was upset, but now they were around her swollen middle, not hugging it so much as keeping it contained. Leia moved in brisk, short steps, as quickly as she could under her gravid shape. She wavered on her high heels and it broke Han's heart, a bit, to know how punishing was her self-discipline. Leia held herself so resolutely apart Han rethought the hand he was moving to the small of her back, tucked it into the slash pocket of his jean jacket as his long legs caught him up.

He thought they were going to Chewie's, but instead Leia turned sharply into the Bluebell Grocery. It was open until seven o'clock; the time was very near that now, and the cashier looked annoyed to have last-minute customers. This was exactly the kind of thing Leia never did to people, never intruded on their systems if she could help it. Her unconscious lack of sensitivity spoke of Leia's upset, even under her polished layers of composure.

Something in the stern way Leia plucked a plastic basket from the stack told Han they weren't going for supper after. As he followed her down the aisle he began to feel rebuked by Leia's silence. She marched to the cooler first, put countless tiny cartons of chocolate milk in her basket. Coke and Cherry Coke. Han knew Leia hated Cherry Coke. Said it tasted like cough medicine.

"I want both," Leia said.

"Great!" Han said, wincing at the eagerness in his voice. "Good."

Leia jerked open another frosted door. Han put a hand on his hip, another to the back of his neck, watching her add tray upon tray of TV dinners—meatloaf and peas, fried chicken and mashed potatoes, macaroni and cheese—to her basket in an uneven pile, tilting on the base of cartons and bottles. TV dinners? This wasn't something they'd ever bought before, and Leia didn't have that dreamy-starved look she got right before she ate something crazy that her alien cargo demanded of her, like three raw carrots one after the other. Even the brand name on the package screamed danger: _Hungry Man._

"Listen. Look." Han took the basket from her arm. "Y'know that was a bunch of horseshi—"

Leia loaded him up with trays, one after the other, until the basket was almost impossible to carry with one hand, until it threatened an avalanche of boxes printed with manic housewives. Leia held her red lips pressed together. Han felt Leia's growing fury as she tried to pile another tray onto the teetering stack. As though she were trying to crack him under the weight. When Han didn't, when she saw he wouldn't, Leia marched to the cashier, rifling her purse. The clerk looked afraid of her, which is how Han knew that a brace-faced kid was smarter than at least one established medical doctor.

"I've got it," Han said, setting the basket down on the counter and withdrawing his wallet from his jacket pocket. Ignoring him, Leia began to set the contents of her bag on the counter with sharp, precise clicks: notebook, pen, glasses, compact, keys. Lipstick. Leia didn't carry clutter, she could find her pocketbook easily; lined up like this, so orderly and small, her possessions seemed a kind of desperate statement.

Her lips were trembling.

"Leia," Han said, softly.

Harshly she swept her things back into her bag, turned, and went out the jingling door.

He tossed way too much money at the thrilled clerk and followed at a jog, paper bags crackling in his arms.

XXXXXXXXXX

The air was heady with blossoms and whisper-soft. After Leia sternly put a couple of the frozen dinners in the oven—she had her point to make, alright, and after near three years of marriage Han knew she'd go on and make it—and changed into a loose housedress, Leia came back outside, lowered herself to the hammock beside him, tucked her bobby-socked feet up. "Heartbeat" on the transistor. _Sing to me love's story._ And how did that story end, for Buddy Holly? Four-seater Beechcraft, frozen Iowa cornfield. Left behind his pregnant wife. Leia would never ask Han not to fly—didn't even _want_ to ask, he knew that—but she had climbed into his lap in the armchair that February night after Luke's doleful call and soaked Han's shirt in quiet tears. Fell asleep there. Left Han stroking her hair in the amber glow from the radio, other hand on the little hill of her belly. Them once-happy songs on every damn station. Han's mind running the terms and concepts he studied in his aviation textbook, worked through with Doc: on the beam, slipstream, aileron. They'd plummeted from the sky so damn fast. No horizon at night. What had gone wrong? Instrument readings, weight, adverse yaw? Pilot error, he found out later: guy couldn't read his instruments in the dark, no line of the horizon to guide him. That had made Han feel, weirdly, a little better—he would not allow that. He would not...allow it.

When she was settled in the hammock, Leia looked at him. Han looked back, struck anew by her beauty: the doe's eyes, lavish lashes, faint sprinkling of freckles across her fine nose. Valiant chin, tender mouth, rich skin across the scaffolding of her cheekbones. All of her face animated by the ferocity of her intelligence. Even now, as his wife lugging around his almost-kid, Leia Organa's level gaze had the power to disconcert him. As Han began to rock the hammock softly with one foot he saw something hinge in her expression, swinging her slowly between vulnerability and resistance.

He opened a miniature carton of chocolate milk, handed it over. Kept the cherry Coke for himself. Han didn't much like it either; tasted like maraschino floor cleaner, but what the hell. Han drank and hoped for the best. He wasn't always sure, just lately, what was support and what was betrayal. When Leia took the milk and drank, Han felt safer. There was a slackening, Han felt it happen, he felt Leia begin to turn back to him. Patiently he kept them swaying, looking away over the lake collecting its western, rosy shadows. Gave Leia a fleet smile, stretching his arm along the yellow mesh behind her, let his thumb stroke her shoulder through the floral calico of her dress.

Finally Leia opened her mouth—and through the screen door, the timer went off.

XXXXXXXXXX

Back outside, Han peeled the tinfoil top from a tray. Meatloaf? Well, if they said so. He handed Leia the macaroni and cheese—she loved it at the diner, though Han would never insult Chewie by truly comparing the two meals. Leia bit into her food. And then her complexion went pastel green and she put the tray down, very carefully, on the small table Han had made because they liked to eat outside. Put it down like an unexploded bomb, keeping her eyes on it the whole time.

Han took a chance. "Is it because—" He gestured at her middle. There had been a lot of things Leia began eating and then abandoned. Swallowing delicately, holding his eyes, Leia shook her head. Her extravagantly revolted expression seemed an overture, a lighter shift in mood Han easily assumed. "It can't be _that_ bad," he said.

The way Leia's eyes flashed was worth everything. She raised an eyebrow, waved at Han's own tray with game show solicitation. "Knock yourself out, Flyboy," she said, her voice low and droll. Taking up a Fiestaware fork, Han shrugged. "I don't wanna...disappoint you here, Sweetheart, but." He lifted a forkful of meatloaf and mashed potato. "I lived on _orphanage food._ You have _no idea_ how—"

He stood at once, dropped the tray to the table. "Jesus," Han said like a ventriloquist, leaning over the porch railing, spitting. Starchy potato paste coated his tongue. As he gulped Cherry Coke like some antidote Han pointed at his tray as though warning it off, away from them. His face was so furious, so outraged and...and _offended_ , that Leia laughed until tears streaked her cheeks. When Han sat again next to her he was shaking his head as though in shock, but a tiny pleased grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Leaning far back into the hammock, her hands palm-up on either side of her head, Leia lapsed into pockets of weak hiccups. Han started that soothing swing again. She quieted in the deepening dusk. Finally she said it on another laugh, this one hard: "Han. How are you so comfortable through all this?"

Glancing at Leia's lovely face, Han weighed his daring, gauged his instinctive reading of his wife. He chose faith. "Just tougher'n you, I guess." He shrugged. "I haven't puked once."

Leia broke again into her wonderful, deep, luxurious laugh, her head arching back in the mesh. Han felt his grin broaden, then still more—ah, he knew he looked dopey but god she was beautiful, god he was weak for all the ways Leia Organa freed herself with him. Finally she trailed off again, wiping mascara from under her eyes with a knuckle. Her hand fell to his thigh, still palm-up. Her eyelids looked heavy, and Han began to hope that Leia would sleep tonight.

"C'mon," Han murmured. "C'mon, let's go in."

She gave a watery sigh, looking off to the lake, into the dying coral line of day.

Han brushed hair from her brow. "He ain't our doctor, Leia. He's just some guy."

Her eyes falling shut, Leia nodded. On his leg, her fingers curled gently toward her palm. She was drifting, Han could see that, as his foot maintained the gliding rhythm.

Leia surprised him with her drowsy question. "Do you still want all this?"

He didn't surprise himself. "Yes."

"I do too. I do but." Her voice small with fatigue. "Aren't you scared?"

Ah, there it was, the question—the admission—she'd been orbiting. Han chewed his lower lip. He never lied to Leia. Was this the time to start? Did she need him, now, to be some stoic man, John Wayne? Her man tall in the saddle against all this change? He looked at Leia's smooth, closed face, at her belly grown well beyond their jurisdiction. No, Han resolved. No version of Leia would believe or accept anything other than the truth. He didn't think it, but he knew it: to lie to her now would be to say she _was_ someone else. Prove her right about all she was afraid of. The fragile vessel. Han let his fingers graze her cheek, porcelain only in color.

"I am fuckin' petrified," Han said, breaking into choked laughter halfway through, and Leia smiled, warm and white and relieved in the near-dark. Was that what she'd wanted, all she'd wanted? "Oh, well. Good," Leia mumbled, teasing even three-quarters to sleep. She tried to rest her head on his chest but sat upright without opening her eyes, fumbling at her hair, her head, exhausted into rare confusion. Seeing the problem, Han gently unclipped her earring—first the one pinching her lobe, but then, also, its innocent twin. She settled back down against him, breathing in. Absently he rattled Leia's pearls in his palm.

"Will you. Stop that?" She nodded her head against him with the depth of her yawn.

"Sure, Leia," Han whispered, tucking the clips into the breast pocket of his jacket.

He went on swaying her in the breeze, now showing its unfinished hem of chill as dark encroached, as Leia sank boneless almost into his flesh. They'd have to get up soon, Han thought, go inside. Get ready for bed. Really rest. Their routines seemed suddenly weighty—not burdensome, but significant. The maps he loved, the patterns he'd once thought a trap but had guided him out, out and up. Until the coming night when it would all be interrupted. No warning; nine damn months of warning. Someday soon, Leia would... she'd have to _have a baby,_ Han thought with a quiver up his spine for all he had not yet thought of, all he did not know. No thanks to that dumb picture show. And then they'd have, oh hell, they'd...

...have a baby. Jesus Christ! Han Solo, raised by no one, would be handed his child and told, hey, don't fuck this up. Only no one _would_ tell him that. There wasn't some asterisk in his textbook advising not to fly into a cliffside, either. It was understood, and that was worse. Han kissed the top of his his wife's head. Inhaled her. Thought of that sign at the front of the shopping center in Minneapolis, where he'd bought Leia's earrings. Place was so big, had so many stores that it needed a big red dot to tell the shopper where to begin. Or, as Doc would want him to put it, a point of launch. Han closed his eyes and saw a furious girl in a white dress, imprisoned but no prisoner. Up on a windowsill, framed in free sky.

Under his hand, Han felt squirming. He ran his palm around like some touch sensor, pressing more firmly. And there it was, the sharp triple-whap: _Here I am!_ Han breathed a silent laugh _._ The kid was as assertive as its mother and as physical as him. Kid like that wouldn't _let_ him fuck up. He tapped back his own three-beat rhythm, tried to give it fatherly authority. _Let her sleep._

XXXXXXXXXXX

"Am I exploiting you?" Leia gasped much later, as they lay spent, on their sides, in the gathering dawn of their room. Scattered chirping from outside. Han still curved against her, taut muscles of his abdomen jumping at her back. Knees between her thighs, his fingers meshed with hers between her thighs. Other arm under her head. Unable to speak yet, Han shook his head, face buried in the sweet, damp crook of Leia's neck.

"You have to be awake in..." She frowned at the alarm clock. "Oh Han, half an _hour?_ You should have said!"

Han released her hand and waved his own where she could see it. Dismissive. He wasn't flying today; that was their only unbreakable rule about his work, one Leia herself had instated: Han must be fully rested if he was going up. He let his hand fall to her hip, warm through her sheer peach silk nightie—she'd bought it when they were newlyweds, but it was a baby-doll silhouette, short and swingy, comfortably loose around her belly. Still a favorite of his. Han smiled against his wife's shoulder, smug and breathless. Incredulous. Here she was in his arms, Leia Organa, wearing this costly filmy nothing. Leia, absurdly lovely and at five in the morning she'd wanted him. Leia wanted _him,_ and now here they were in this soft shattered aftermath, lilacs breathing mauve and cream through the window-screens. Their almost-kid somewhere in the ether, planning its freedom. And if you told Han Solo that the price of this, the cost of all this impossible happiness, was that he'd be _a little tired in a parts meeting?_

Fuck. He'd have taken a horsewhipping.

But when Han recovered enough to reassure her— _Princess? wake me up like that forever_ —Leia had found blissful erasure, lips pressed to the inside of his arm in a half-finished kiss.

XXXXXXXXXX

After the meeting, Han punched his lunch break and walked out to Millie, parked alone in the far lot. Well. It wasn't really a parking lot anymore—it was a field, overgrown and peaceful, far beyond the apron of the hangar. No one else parked there, because it was a walk, but when he had time Han liked it. Today he enjoyed the exercise, the solitude, after the clang and talk of his morning. Han loved his work, liked the noise and he liked the guys but today he took his aviation study guide and one of sixteen new miniature cartons of chocolate milk and waded out through the long...maidengrass? Luke had named it once. Like them fancy-named hens, the kinda things Leia and Luke liked to know.

Han studied better with Leia. It was her idea: she took his book and read out the words and Han provided the definitions, explained the concepts to her in layman's terms. It was so damn helpful that Han couldn't believe it; walking the hardwood floor acting angle of attack with the flat of his hand worked for him in a way that reading couldn't. Leia was different, Leia loved the language, especially delighted to find familiar words that had different meanings in flight than on earth: chord. Cathedral. Feathering.

Han sprawled in the back of his truck, which he somehow knew to be the launch point of the tiny stranger asleep now in Leia, spinning in her dreams, their imaginings. Leia knew too, judging from her blush when she was talking baby names and he suggested, _Pippin? Honeycrisp? Whaddaya mean I'm joking, Princess...Granny Smith?_ Han stretched his length in the sun with his book. Radio on and maybe he'd hear Buddy Holly, though he was falling from the playlists, almost four months gone. But maybe he'd be back today, not lost in a frozen field but alive in this one, mellow and golden and nodding with flowers. Han hummed it himself as he opened his book: _Love is love and not fade away._

He meant to study the whole hour. He meant to know it all, every trick, superstition, every ritual. But as the sun spread itself generous over his effort, Han's book fell to his chest, peaked as a child's drawing of a church. His eyelids fluttered and ideas decoupled themselves from meaning: red notebook, red lipstick; Rosecomb. Pink Lady. Sometimes, he ran this slipstream of impression when he was merged with Leia, when he was at that excruciating peak of joy so brief and so everlasting, limitless as the horizon but already dimming. A power in it anyway, the power of oblivion, the power of beginning. Han's eyes sank shut, he was plummeting: _You are here. Here I am._


	73. Chapter 73

July 8, 1959. Leia wore a lavender cotton sundress at breakfast. Shapeless, it criss-crossed on her back; the intersection of paler bands of skin that delineated her bathing suit straps made Han feel a strange protectiveness. She couldn't get to the beach, anymore. For the last week she hadn't left the house, she'd walked a circuit of discomfort around the cabin: desk, porch, kitchen, bathtub, bed. Mostly she read, or slept, enduring the heat. Han tried not to smother her. He spent time in his shop to give her space; the crib was finished, but he was tinkering with ideas for a high-chair. He was within earshot, and left the radio off to be extra-sure.

But today Leia woke with a brittle, frenetic energy. She was tired of being at home, Leia said over their late breakfast, pushing curled tendrils of hair from her face. She pushed away her fruit salad, too, which Chewie had made a vat of when he noticed her diner orders coming back almost uneaten except for the garnish of grapes and citrus. "Well, there's this kid just sacked out on her stomach, Chewie, and it ain't leavin'," Han had said, when Chewie got anxious.

Leia stood. She said she wanted to go into town. Maybe to the Tosche Five and Dime. Readily Han stood too, folding his egg into his toast, stuffing this makeshift sandwich into his mouth as he went for his keys. Snagged a nectarine from the turquoise Pyrex bowl on the counter—which had itself come from the fiver. Bert Tosche was an odd old guy, stocked whatever caught his eye. Luke had introduced Han to the place, saying every visit was an adventure; that was the kind of shit only Luke Skywalker could say with a straight face but he was right, Han loved the random bargains, the mechanical treasures. Maybe he should call Luke at the Bespin, invite him along? Luke was in town from New York for his summer break, excitedly waiting for the baby to make its escape.

"What are you doing?" Leia asked, stepping into her laceless espadrilles.

"Gorn shrpn," Han said, around the nectarine clamped between his teeth, easily tugging his own boots onto his feet.

"It's just the..." Vaguely Leia gestured toward some point she couldn't fully reach. Her back ached, and she planted her fists there with febrile impatience. "Just the Tosche." She didn't need anything, really. The beautiful, spooled crib was finished and in the loft, made up with polka-dot sheets. They had bottles, diapers, safety pins, tiny clothes. Picture books. She'd crossed everything off that actually useful hospital-bag checklist she and Shara composed themselves while eating ice cream cones on the beach.

"Lipstick?" Leia said, still nettled, but Shara answered at full face value.

"If you want it, yes," Shara said, mouth tinted with imitation mint. "I could not have given the sliver of a fuck."

This phrase from professional, incisive nurse Shara made Leia absurdly grateful. The blunt respect in it, especially after the sometimes-gritty physical details of their entire conversation; the preparation, the frank sisterhood. Shara provided the adamant opposite of all those infuriating, cutesy euphemisms, of the concentration on the care of menfolk, even the precious ones. Leia hadn't been sure if she was laughing or crying, it was impossible to tell anymore, but she did one or the other until she felt ice cream dribble down her arm. She rested her head on her old friend's shoulder. Shara kissed Leia's head and wiped vanilla from her full-moon belly.

Ah, the beach. Leia longed for the lake, but couldn't face the trek down any longer, let alone the walk back. The closest thing she could imagine to the water, its cool, its weightlessness, its blessed separation from herself was the drive into town. Her and Millie, windows rolled down, drinking in tree-air chilled by speed. She didn't want anything in the shops; what Leia wanted was freedom, just a taste. But she was too hot and tired and...oh, _slowed_ to clearly think this, let alone articulate it to Han. Nothing was swift anymore. Not her movements, not her thoughts, not the lifelong intellectual connections she had naively believed effortless. Even Han felt too real, huge and close, watching her with those heated gold eyes. Leia, lately, had had enough of the body, everyone's body, of everything flesh. She wanted to drive and drive and drive until she was nothing but austere consciousness.

After securing his boot, Han glided to his full height. Leia craned her head; this change in perspective, the graceful obedience of Han's body, rankled further. Han did not notice, chewing the last of his nectarine. He opened the door and walked to the edge of the porch, throwing the pip into the trees. Easy snap of elbow and wrist, flex of shoulder sending the stone soaring. Setting Leia's teeth on edge. He sauntered back and leaned in the open door, grinned, eyes crinkling, lean, deeply tanned. Waved her flirtatiously through, under the bridge of his arm. Leia didn't move.

"I can drive," Leia bit out. "I can drive myself."

"Naaaah. S'fine," Han shrugged affectionately down at her.

She put a hand to her forehead, the other to the sway of her back. Cramp. "You're going to stare at me while I shop?" With the ache Leia's tone was harsh, and Han took it that way, smile fading. But Leia meant the question seriously, though she felt too beleaguered to explain this. The picture that came to mind of Han sitting at the Tosche, at some dinette set sold cheap because its paint was scraped, long, red-striped legs kicked up on the table—folded arms, unbroken gaze—was vivid.

"I like the fiver more'n _you_ do," Han said. "Anyway, Luke wanted to pick up some pow—" Impatiently pushing away his own justification, Han hooked a hand at the top jamb, leaning into the doorway. "Could be anytime now."

"You don't say," Leia said.

Han inhaled sharply through his mouth, then slowly exhaled through his nose, looking at a spot above her head.

"I'm a grown woman," Leia said. "I—" She was cut off by that twinge in her back, a pull in her right side, now. Like a stitch cramp.

Han began something, then shook his head, double-knocking his knuckles at the top of the door. "Y'know what, Leia? Kid's a week past due."

"Oooooh. Please, Han, explain to me how a calendar works. I can solve for _x_ but that whole nine months thing?" Leia held up her hands, began to count on her fingers with a look of Lucille Ball confusion so skewering that it ordinarily would have made Han laugh, but now pissed him off. "It's just so _puzzling_ now I've made a ba—"

"We," Han said with a seething patience, his teeth almost a smile. " _We_ made a baby."

"Oh, yes?" Leia snatched up her net shopping bag. It was looped on one of the hickory hooks he'd whittled to stay sane during the ridiculous TV shows Leia invited Chewie over to watch. Alright, maybe Han liked watching _The Fugitive_ with them: Chewie sprawled on the floor enthralled as some huge, bearded kid, Leia cuddled up to Han on the couch, biting her thumb with suspense. Chewie's caramel popcorn, that was it, that was why Han had bought the Pyrex bowl. "Would you like to carry said baby around for a little while?"

"I'd carry you down the damn block if it helped, Princess, and you know it."

"Like at Starwood, over your shoulder?"

 _Starwood?_ Danger signals blared in Han's head. Mindful of the kind of facility that was, mindful of what had happened to the baby of Breha Naberrie, Han answered honestly and slowly. Afraid to punch a foot through some unsound floor. An energy seemed to be gathering in Leia, turbulent and tidal, and it was not something to fuck around with. "Well...yeah. Yeah. If you were...if you could get hurt. I would put you over my shoulder. Yes." _Plus sometimes you like it, Princess._ He would not add that.

"Why don't you put me over your knee, too?" Leia said, hard and reckless.

Han looked at her, astonished.

"You're in charge, aren't you? You decide if I'm competent. We needed your signature on the medical form authorizing anesthesia! For me! So you go ahead, Han, and tell me what I can and cannot—"

"Oh for _Christ._ " Han's eyes were round and copper as pennies. "Those forms, I said to the doctor how— _cannot,_ Leia?—over my _knee?"_ He shook his head. "No. I have not—Leia. Not once, this whole—not once. No." His jaw worked. "Three months, six months, hell: eight, do what you like, I didn't even think about it because...you're competent. Right?" Seeing the register of acknowledgement in Leia's eyes, Han pushed it. " _You are also overtime pregnant_. I happen to fucking care about my wife and—hey Princess, cut me some slack, huh?"

"Cut _you_ some—Han, you were in the _sky_ two weeks ago! I just want to go to the stupid five-and-dime!"

Han looked at Leia. Really looked. Her huge eyes snapping in her pink face. The fine hair around her forehead curling in the humidity. Her belly an impossible weight that she was determined to defy by hauling it anywhere she damn well pleased. Frustration poured off her, so powerful it edged on despair. He was almost felled by the wave of feeling.

"Look, I couldn't do it." Han said. "I mean _mentally,_ I couldn't do it: what you're doing, what you've done. It's nuts, yeah, I— _"_ He rasped a hand down his cheek. "Look, I don't go up—" Han jerked a thumb at the beamed porch ceiling, but Leia understood he meant the sky beyond. "If I was goin' up, no sleep? You'd just be fine with it? You'd _wait_ out here?"

She softened too. Slightly. "I want to go to Main Street, Han," Leia grumbled, kneading her tailbone. "Not the damned stratosphere."

Han felt his mouth tug to the side at Leia's instinctive vocabulary, persisting despite all affliction. "That's the big jets, Sweetheart." He risked taking her hand in his, just her fingertips, and she let him. He risked a wink. "This cowherder rides the _troposphere._ "

He flourished the word like peacock's feathers, a bid to please her. Leia smiled: had he charmed her, stormed her, who could tell? She knew very well what her husband was up to, fanning out linguistic bait and private joke and that beguiling grin in some poker hand, but she let him. And Han knew, was happy to know forever that it was only for her own reasons Leia let him win her.

"Listen," Han said, mercenary now. "We drive in— _you_ drive—and I get out at Chewie's. You go to the fiver, get your...propane tank or flat of canned peas or whatever the hell Tosche's got there today—"

Leia sighed, and when she stepped onto the porch to join him, pulling the door closed behind her, Han understood she accepted the compromise. "Could be sixty bottles of purple nail polish, could be an industrial trash compactor. You never know."

"See, that's just it," Han said almost to himself, as she took his arm and they moved slowly from cedar planks to gravel driveway. The breeze was full with promised rain; out of aviation habit he peered at the knotting gray sky. Troposphere: where the weather happens. "We don't."

XXXXXXXXXX

"Why do you take this apart now?" Han grouched down from his ladder. He scowled again at the ceiling fan above the diner counter. Chewie shrugged, went on blending milkshakes for the kids twisting on the stools. "Middle of the summer—"

The door jangled. Cecil entered the diner.

"I don't wanna talk to him," Han muttered.

Han Solo knew what bad people were. Cecil wasn't that. But he didn't approve of Han, and lacked the social skill to hide it. He wasn't even a snob, that's what galled: Cecil was almost apologetic about his negative conclusions. Like they were objective fact. Cecil kept, uh, _breaking the news to him_ that Han was unsuitable for Leia Organa _._ When they'd been married damn near three years. When they'd have a kid any minute. You'd think after all the Empire shit went down...gritting his teeth, Han returned his attention to the ceiling.

Cecil moved in his rigid, herky-jerky way to the base of Han's ladder. Han ignored him. A couple of years ago at the _Gazette_ holiday party, Han had growled to Leia, _I don't trust his elbows_ and she'd laughed so hard she hid in the coat closet. He hadn't been trying to be funny, he told her as they walked arm in arm down snowy Main Street after, looking at the Christmas lights, and that had started Leia going all over again.

There was a fussy clearing of throat. See, this was what Han didn't get. He didn't mind Cecil's disapproval; he'd welcome it, if it meant Cecil left him alone. But that Cecil disapproved of Han _and_ insisted on talking at him for half a damn hour about...button exports outta Duluth in 1913 or—

"Might I have a word with you, please?"

Checking the fan's level, Han reached into his tool-belt for his screwdriver. Ignoring Cecil hadn't worked yet, but maybe it was his lucky day.

"Mr. Solo." Cecil insisted. "I have just now encountered Miss Organa."

What was Cecil doing at the fiver? Replacing his servo motor?

"Didja," Han said, squinting up.

"She didn't acknowledge my greeting."

"Maybe she didn't feel like talkin'," Han said, tightening a screw that didn't need it.

"Oh, no. She is always most welcoming when we meet by chance. Unfailingly gracious. No, Miss Organa seemed to be in some sort of distre—"

A sudden pressure in Han's ears sealed off the rest.

XXXXXXXXXX

He found her staring at a row of televisions.

Leia was in the fourth aisle, staring at remaindered portable televisions. Their wooden cases battered and gouged, unsuitable for some fancier shop. It was just the sort of thing Han would like, would fix right up, sand and stain and it'd be good as new; Luke had said he'd like a little model for his dorm room. But Han didn't even notice the bargain. Because Leia had one hand braced on a shelf, the other pressed low to her swollen side.

Han was still breathing hard from his three-block sprint. "You all right?"

Leia showed him her blanched face. She looked nearly hostile, like she didn't understand why Han was here.

"I heard—" Han said, moving to her. Leia was shivering, and yeah the air conditioning was cranked so high the store felt like some arctic planet, but she was shivering _hard._ Closer yet, he saw it wasn't hostility Leia felt: she was turned inward, focused, trying to marshal and distribute her armies. _Oh hell._ Han was pierced by a bolt of thrill and guilt and animal panic. _Fifth gear, Solo. This is it._

Leia gazed blankly back to the screens. The sound was off, but the tubes flickered with scenes; commercials, soap operas, cooking shows. Daytime TV. Women cleaning, women being kissed, beatific women icing cakes. Women bathing chubby babies in frothy bubbles. Faintly Leia shook her head, as though cancelling some request—one she'd made herself, or one asked of her? Han couldn't know.

"Leia?"

Han didn't doubt Leia's bravery, never would. But the face she turned up to him looked so young; the preternaturally mature, brilliant person now radiating defiance, denial. Under these, fear. He reached for her and Leia, with evasive speed unthinkable for her heavily rounded little frame, ducked his arm. Han spun on his heel, flabbergasted.

Leia halted as though at some invisible barrier. Han couldn't feel it, but he could see it was pain, real pain, new pain, enough to steal her breath. Clarified by crisis, Han lunged to Leia and gripped her by an arm, stared into her face. Her tiny body thrummed around the burden of her belly, her eyes filled with rebellion and indecision. Han's own eyes were searching and insistent, gone earnest amber. He did not try to soothe, knowing this for a dismissal. He did not try to cajole. No, Han spoke directly to Leia's sense of reason, to her trust in him, his voice grave and full of his allegiance.

"C'mon. That's it."

She stared at him. Across her stormy face flickered crucial messages from her viscera. There was a gentleness in Han's eyes, gone a warm amber, that warred with the action slant of his lips. Leia reached the limit of her resistance. Han was her ally, that was the promise in his eyes and he did not drop them from hers, did not drop them until she gave a little sound and then he took her by shoulder and arm, big body at her back, and began to steer her from the store.

There came a broad, grinding pain that set Leia's hand flailing at a beach display. A stack of Igloo coolers and ice cube trays, plastic picnic-basket inserts filled with freezable gel wobbled and tumbled down around them; with a curt _whuh?_ Han curved his long, broad frame over Leia's, cupping a paw over her skull. He heard something break, heard Tosche curse in German. "Sorry about the mess!" Han barked, not halting their progress. Fuck it: he'd come back tomorrow and toss a hundred bucks to the counter, he liked the guy, but not today. Han was not stopping today. Nothing on earth could keep him from getting Leia to the truck.

Outside, it was raining. Leia slid on a patch of oily water and Han held her still tighter, righting her balance. She could feel Han twitching as he handed her up into the passenger side of the truck, which she had tucked neatly to the curb outside the shop, and yanked his keys from his jacket. As Han cleared the gutter to the driver's side in what looked like one dogged stride, Leia curled around herself, caught again in the jaws of pain. Leia pressed her face to the back of Millie's bench seat, inhaling the good red leather that seemed to warm for her, soften just for her, curve to fit her cheek like a caress.

Han didn't speak as he drove, windshield wipers swiping a hypnotizing beat, his neck strung tight. He glanced at Leia, curled on the seat, and back at the road, turning from Main Street onto Coronet and then finally Arallute. Just like he'd quietly scouted and timed on his way home from work, just like he'd run it in his head, lying awake—he'd run it a different way from Alder Glen, along the highway. Damn it he always figured it would come on at home. But he'd planned his routes like the Kessel Run, and Millie had this one down, devouring the distance in minutes.

Han held that drive in his mind with perfect recall for the rest of his life. He remembered the rainstorm, silver burst from the skies, sun shot through in prismatic lines. The pavement was a river of glaring pewter and Han winced against it, having the illogical conviction that putting his sunglasses on would isolate him from Leia. And Leia _was_ looking at him, eyes wide and solemn, just before she ducked her chin to her chest. Her face went inscrutable, her eyelids sank. And for the first time Han fully realized what this meant, that Leia was going somewhere he could not follow, entering an arena in which he could not protect her. Han could shoulder none of this for her. He swallowed hard. Leia would suffer and there was no way around that; Han would be forced, at some point, to leave her to it. Be left alone himself with that knowledge in some waiting room. Everything in him reeled and reared up at this abandonment.

 _But not yet._ Han took her hand, hard, willed her to pour her pain into him. _Not yet._


	74. Chapter 74

The pale wee girl nearing the end of the first stage of labor was more frightened once her pain was managed. As though the hurt had been anchoring her, or distracting her from what truly scared her. The young woman was hiding it well; she was brave, had a distinct, steely dignity. Seemed to know all the medical terms and stages, would not stop asking questions, wanting details. Aileen approved of a bright girl and enjoyed answering; she could see the girl took a sort of comfort in the workings of her big brain. But Aileen Thompson had been an obstetrics nurse for twenty-five years, assisted her midwife mother in Georgia before she was ten. Aileen knew fear. Everyone had it by the time they made it here, all women had it, though what they were scared of varied. It wasn't fear of pain, not this one. For this girl it was...fear of failure? Maybe, some. But Aileen thought, it was mostly fear of waiting. Fear of passivity, of patience. Fear of the level of vigilance it takes to wait.

Big boy next to her, too tall for the chair pulled up next to her bed? He didn't like waiting, either. Long old legs jouncing his knees almost to his ribs. And he was scared, too, underneath his tan. Not scared of his wife, and not of his impending child—some men were—but seeing her in pain? That did a number on him. Aileen had sent him on a few errands around the hospital, ice chips, tea, just so he could feel useful, move those lanky limbs before he fidgeted them off. Now that his wife wasn't suffering so much he hadn't _relaxed,_ but he wasn't humming with the tension of keeping his fear from spilling onto her, anymore. Big handsome boy. Strange eyes, color of Aileen's marigolds. She didn't see most fathers up close—she did labor and delivery, not the after. Most men were happy to keep to the waiting room; some just stayed home. Aileen got the feeling that this one would go all the way with his girl, if only he was allowed.

Speaking of that; the patient closed her eyes into another contraction. Aileen checked the clock. Time was winding.

"This is the part in the film when _Madam_ does her nails," the young woman said to her husband in a stagy voice, when the grip of the surge had loosened. Then she looked stricken. "I didn't bring a book. Whole bag packed and not one book." She ground her teeth. Yes, she was definitely the kind of person who drove herself, took action; she was furious at her forgetfulness and on the edge of terror at the thought of nothing to do, nothing to occupy her.

Aileen saw the lightbulb go on over Big Boy's head. He pulled a paperback novel from the inside pocket of his red-tabbed trucker jacket. _Goldfinger._ Aileen wouldn't have pegged the girl as a James Bond fan but she looked at that damn book like it was an oasis. Like she'd been delivered from something herself.

"Probably not your thing, huh." The boy had a funny smile, all lopsided. From one side he looked cocky, the other tentative. "It was all they had in the gift shop. Well—" His eyes tightened slightly on some private amusement. "—they had, uh, _Honeymoon Highwayman._ But," He swept stray hair back from his wife's flushed cheek."Figured maybe you'd had enough of scoundrels."

He smirked the last like it was a joke, but behind it lurked apology. Aileen clicked her tongue. Men could be like that, when things got mean, when this pain came for women with claws and teeth. Any other day of their lives they knew their wives were grown, had made an adult decision on their own to become parents. But there was something about the imbalance of childbirth that did this to men, sometimes, made them feel like they'd taken some advantage. Retroactive shame, Aileen called it. It passed. But. _Scoundrel?_ He was pretty, yes, but Aileen almost chuckled at the notion of this besotted, nervy young fellow as some rogue from the Harlequins she herself enjoyed. Some highwayman stealing kisses and money. Earnestly turning the wire rack of paperback books in some white shirt baring manly chest hair, musket strapped to the thigh of his tight breeches? Aileen didn't see it.

"You're. Are perfect." Big brown eyes went filmy as the drugs kicked _way_ in. "Always wanted," the patient sighed, holding the book to her chest, "to be a spy." _That,_ Aileen could picture.

Highwayboy looked at his girl with such a wave of affection that even jaded Aileen was warmed. "You got spare glasses in the glove-box. I'll get 'em." He shot Aileen a wary look, rolled his shoulders, and suddenly she glimpsed a much tougher, harder man, even ruthless. She hadn't noticed his scar before—you could call that rakish. Well now, maybe _he_ was the scoundrel. "I'm comin' back."

Aileen nodded, but thoughtfully, at the clock. "Better move it, Daddy Long Legs." There was no way that girl was going to get any reading done; things were about to get straight real, but Aileen didn't plan to break it to the couple. Reading wasn't the point here.

"Han Solo," the girl breathed, as her husband—Han—moved to stand.

The patient—Leia Organa, according to the name on her chart—pulled Han down, into a clumsy but heartfelt kiss. She put her hand to his cheek, eyes wide and glassy with narcotic and emotion. Han smiled back at her, his own eyes wild and scared and loving; his fingers clasped Leia's wrist, and he pressed his lips to her palm, once, twice.

"Han..." Leia whispered, trailing off, distantly perturbed as words escaped her thickened tongue. _That_ probably didn't happen to Leia Organa much. _Hard out here for a bright girl,_ Aileen heard in her mother's voice, what her mother had told her all her life, had said through proud tears at Aileen's nursing graduation. And there Aileen was, missing Mrs. Mayverne B. Thompson for the third time that week. Sometimes it was something about the work.

"Hey, whatever makes you feel pretty, Princess," Han whispered back, and then both began to laugh; a little crazily, the edge of hysteria Aileen thought, as they nuzzled their faces together.

XXXXXXXXXX

This one was like a dawning, a glimmer that rose and warmed and climbed until it burst over her in pain and heat. Did it truly hurt, or did she just watch it hurt? She was walled off from pain, but the wall was glass. She could still see it, know that it was there.

The glass was cracking.

Han was there too. Still. An hour after the last nurse had told him to leave. How did someone so large stay invisible? Holding her hand clasped to his chest, his head tucked to hers, his other hand at the back of her neck. Keeping close, private, knowing that display would humiliate her, even as Leia felt herself outside humiliation. No longer human enough for humiliation. But with low words Han kept rebuilding a little room, all their own. _Sweetheart. You're so brave._ Every time pain, like some wolf, blew their shelter down—using her voice, using her breath—Han was back with boards, hammer and nails. _That's my girl._

"It's so," Leia said, fumbling. Agony and drugs; she could not think. She could only know. It was bad, it was so...hard. It wasn't the pain that was the worst, it was the confinement. It was the trap. Leia could not get up, she could only remain here in this starched bed, in this starched gown, in the maw of some process, at the mercy of some merciless process. She hadn't known it would be relentless, endless. Leia didn't realize she was making sounds. She didn't know she was speaking aloud— _it's so, it's so_ — until Han spoke again.

"Yeah," Han nodded, re-took her hand in his, his palm marked with the stigmata of her grip. He looked at her, both anguished and steadfast. She thought, nonsensically, that his eyebrows were angled like the paddles on a pinball machine—up trying to stop something from falling. His forehead creased so constantly there were red lines there whenever his face relaxed. "Yeah." Han didn't try to talk her out of it. He didn't tell her it was okay. Suddenly Leia felt her love for him in a raw and animal way, closing her free fingers in his gray t-shirt. Pulled her cheek to his chest, pressing through the worst of it, into his comforting woody smell, as he set himself stoutly against her. When her fingers loosened on his hand Han wrapped them back around, wrapped them in his, reaffirmed the bond. Persisting despite his powerlessness.

"It's awf—" Leia said, before her voice was pinched in another grinding clench. He put his forehead to the crown of her head, shaking his head side to side, making unintelligible crooning sounds. Her own growl ended in a gasp that almost drew the cotton of his shirt into her mouth: _Fucking. Awful._ She felt herself unravelling. "Oh Han. Han, how—"

He had no answer. He did not lie.

"It's gonna hurt like hell for awhile," Han said against her damp cheek, filigreed with her hair. "And then it'll be over, it'll all be over and we'll have our kid, we'll take our kid and go home, Princess. It's gonna end."

XXXXXXXXXX

It was Shara Bey they sent to rout him. And even this staunch friend Han glared at, stubbornly set himself. She put her deft hand to his shoulder. He twitched off her grasp. "I know, Han, I do know. But this is how it's done. You have to go." Shara squeezed, somehow drawing him to his feet, nodding sympathetic insistence into his wild, charged face. "You have to go."

Han opened his mouth, shut it. Looked at Leia, her eyes closed, whiter than her pillow. She was gone from him now, submerged in herself, sunk to a depth he could no longer fathom. He had the sense that he'd be an obstruction, now, that him between Leia and the world could no longer work. Would prolong her hurt. Han leaned down to kiss her, stations of some prayer: knuckles, forehead, temple. He'd have kissed her mouth but he was afraid to disrupt her long breaths.

"It's time," Shara said. In her face was an encouraging excitement, and Han remembered that there was a point to all Leia's suffering, and the point was good, the point was—

"Time?"

As he was steered backwards to the door, almost reeling, Han considered it. Time, the trick of it. The cheat of it. It had been over nine months and it was not enough. Not enough time to find a way through this, for him to plan a route that kept Leia perfectly safe. What had he been _doing,_ all that time? What would he do with all the time left now, stretching before him, cruel and elastic?

"I'll take care of her, Han." Shara said as she moved back to Leia, her tough, uncompromising gaze a strange comfort. "I promise you. I love her, too."

Han nodded dumbly, his eyes fixed on Leia, not aware he was being backed with firm insistence from the room by another nurse—not Aileen, that was hours ago, they told him, she'd gone off shift hours ago—until the door closed in his face.

XXXXXXXXXX

The rubber mask came down over Leia's nose and mouth. _Breathe deep, Mrs. Solo._ In the last moments, she almost panicked—the whoosh of synthetic breath somehow reminded her of Anakin Skywalker.

Padmé Amidala stood before a window, dressed in gold. She turned her glowing face to Leia with no surprise, no sense of separation. As if they'd resumed a lifelong conversation, some connection only briefly severed. Her smile so like Breha's but merrier, daring.

Was this death?

 _No,_ Padmé laughed, _no, darling. No._ Playfulness softened to initiation. _This is life—_

She touched her daughter's face. Cool, merciful, and then a rush of light.

XXXXXXXXXX

Han found Luke and Chewie in the waiting room. Luke was asleep on Chewie's shoulder, Chewie paging through a copy of _Gourmet_ magazine. On the empty seat beside him, Chewie had a Thermos and a paper bag. At the sight of it Han shook his head. He could not eat, he tried to say, even as he saw his own hands reach for the bag, reach as though from great remove. Han tore into the ham and cheese sandwich like an animal. Han felt like an animal, bleary from some subterranean den.

After the coffee Han could not rest, not that he would have been able to anyway, though his head clamored with fatigue. Was it night? Chewie told him it was 4:37 am and Han nodded as though this had meaning. He marked time by pacing, jailhouse time, hands laced at the back of his skull, feeling his shirt pull across his back. He took off his jean jacket, put it back on. Took it off. He dragged both hands through his hair. _Leia._ God, Han felt like—he felt like—his mind knew they'd done it together and they'd known what that meant but he hadn't, he hadn't _known_ he'd be walking around out here, his body emphatically his own, while she, while she went through...

 _Alone._

Han braced his palms against the pastel green wall and beat his head against his forearms. Dark blue denim: when had he put his jacket back on?

Chewie stood up, put a reassuring hand on Han's shoulder, told him he was going to the cafeteria for more coffee. Guided Han away from the wall without Han noticing. The hospital coffee was _swill,_ Chewie declared with a shaken fist, _shameful bilge_ but they must remain fuelled for the great trial that was upon them. Putting his palms on Han's shoulders, Chewie very seriously kissed the top of Han's head. And off he went, the change in his pocket jingling with every mighty step. Crazy guy, it wasn't as though Han demanded Chewie be here at all, let alone stay on one hard, way-too-small chair for the rest of his—

Han heard it, then. From down the hall. A terrible sound: a brief moan, a...terrible sound. It was not begging but it was close to despair. So ragged it tore Han in the heart.

Luke woke up, completely and all at once, just as Han pivoted on his boot-heel and strode down the hall. Back the way he'd come.

"Hi Han," Luke said. "Where,"

"I'm gonna get her outta there," Han heard himself say over his shoulder.

"Han." Even Luke's jog was graceful; he caught up to Han and tucked his hand under Han's elbow, herded him gently around like a tugboat turning a barge. They walked together. Luke said sweetly, "I'm your brother, and I won't lie to you." He stopped them walking and took Han by the upper arms. "Leia is okay," Luke said. "I promise."

Han bent slightly at the waist, thrust his finger in Luke's face. Luke did not lose his serenity. "You weren't in there, Luke," Han said between his teeth. "She's—" Lip trembling, Han closed his eyes, drove his hands into his hair again.

"I know. I know. But she's all right." Luke's eyes went faraway. "I can feel it."

Han's brows knit, his face seemed to give way to plea. He needed to believe.

Nodding, Luke took Han's arm again. Helplessly Han let himself be walked—like a child, like a dog.

"I'd feel better if she was cussin' out the doctor," Han sighed, and when Luke softly laughed, Han couldn't understand why.

XXXXXXXXXX

July 9, 1959. 6.13 am. Seated between Luke and Chewie, his head propped against the wall, Han could see a window past the vending machine. He watched it fill with fuzzy light, dove gray and duckling yellow.

Luke sat up, his eyes like some electric sea.

From down the hall came an enraged, frayed wail. Not Leia; newer. Han's head jerked from the wall, his face breaking like the dawn outside. They all leaped up, they all were just—up. Han filled with first relief for Leia— _ah Sweetheart, ah God_ —and then an awed, primal pride to know that he was the co-author of that mad little cry. He began to laugh as Luke and Chewie fell on him, hugging and shoving and lifting, laughing too. Han didn't know if he was on his feet anymore, or floating to the ceiling, or descending to his knees. Something was wrong with his eyes. He couldn't see.

XXXXXXXXXX

Kid was just in time to work the first breakfast shift, Janson whooped to the cheering diner staff, when Luke called. Then Luke phoned the Bespin and spoke to an ebullient Lando, already, as always, at his huge walnut desk. _Well done, Little Queen!_ _Old pirate's a father!_ In the background Luke heard a delighted Willa, Donna, an Annie who, even as a successful entrepreneur, still burst into tears. Then Luke left a message with Barbara Antilles for Wedge to get when he called his mother. He called Carlist Rieekan; he called Mon Mothma.

The payphone was beside the glass-walled nursery. As he made the calls Han was too shocked to attempt—Han had called Doc himself, but ended up babbling at Dottie, _Got a baby now hi Dot how are you?_ — Luke watched Chewie stand at his best friend's side in silence, arm slung with fortifying weight over Han's shoulders. The young father had his hand braced high against the wall beside the window. Staring wide-eyed, his lips parted and cheeks stubble-peppered and forehead crumpled and hair a disaster—how, Luke thought with affection, was Han still such a handsome bastard—through the glass.

There were no other babies in the nursery, but it was hard to see her from where they were. She was asleep in her clear plastic bassinet, under a card that read _Baby Girl Solo._ Tiny creature, rosy in her snowy cone of blankets. Wild puff of hair: looked like Leia's in color, Han's in texture.

 _Look at her,_ Han raved to her uncles, over and over. _Look at her, Luke. That's my...baby. Didja see her, Chewie? My baby girl._

A nurse entered the nursery and scooped the baby up. Shara Bey, eyes purple-hollowed, tugged down her mask and beamed through the glass, beckoning Han. Han stood frozen until Chewie gave him such a mighty, heartening slap on the back that it seemed to break some spell. Han did not run as he moved down the hall, but he held himself back from that with a tension visible all through his long muscles.

When he was gone, Chewie hugged Luke and left cheerfully for work. _Work?_ _After that_? Luke marvelled, leaving too. As he walked the six blocks from the hospital to the Bespin Luke felt so suddenly, powerfully fatigued that he wondered if he was channelling the feelings of his twin. Just in case, he closed his eyes and sent Leia all his love, as hard as he could.

XXXXXXXXXX

Han Solo stared into the face of his daughter.

He was in Leia's room, sitting on the edge of Leia's narrow bed. Han was balanced there, arm around Leia; one boot planted on the minty tile. A hand resting on the little, warm, sleeping form burrowed peacefully against her mother. When Leia looked up at him, exhausted and bone-white and incandescent with happiness, Han kissed her mouth. Just once, gentle and urgent and thankful. Leia was spent, almost boneless under his shoulder. Han did not want to trouble her with his urge to kiss her further, his selfish drive to reassure himself of her safety. "I love you," he said.

"I know," she sighed, almost asleep.

But she didn't sleep.

"Han," Leia murmured, into his side. "Isn't she. _Oh_. Isn't she..."

Han opened his mouth, then stopped. He could not say, _My God, Sweetheart._ He could not say, _Look what you've done._ Not say _Leia, look at her face._ He just nodded, his cheek on Leia's loose hair. Touched a knuckle to a tiny velvet cheek. Stunned by Leia's capacity, by his own. He caught a yellow sock as it kicked free of its blanket. He knew that foot. She wore a tag on her ankle stamped _Girl_ _Solo_. Their baby girl, her fierce little kicks in the free world, now. The world that swam before Han Solo's eyes, vast and generous, newly treacherous.

"Happy birthday," Leia barely got it out.

"Huh." Han looked at the baby in Leia's arms, his own arms curved around them. "Huh." He was silent: _thanks_ seemed grossly inadequate. He'd forgotten that he was twenty-seven; forgotten that he'd met Leia exactly three years ago, and now he was meeting their kid. He had no conscious memory of the words that came to him then, but they did come: as though he'd sent them to himself through time for just this instant with her, with them.

"Crown of stars, baby," Han said, as he softly stroked his daughter's head.

His voice was so controlled, so careful, that Leia drew back to look at him. Han's face was dazed with revelation. His lower lashes glittered. Leia pulled in a breath. She had never seen Han cry. Even that horrible night at Cloud City, his eyes hot and glossy, he hadn't cried. With the heel of a hand, Han dashed impatiently at his cheeks. He blinked at his wet palm, horrified. He looked wildly at Leia; down at their child.

"She just...ah. _Leia,_ " Han's voice cracked and filled with light. He said the words in a rush: "She needs us so much."

And Han broke down then, quiet, husky and rough. He tented a shamed hand over his eyes, but soon he let Leia bring his face to her neck. She knew, she knew. They had seen their bereavements through their own eyes; now they understood what it had meant to their mothers to leave them. Leia didn't trust herself to speak, so she just nodded, stroking her fingers through Han's hair as they wet each other's skin. Between them their baby slept behind her mother's lashes, pursing her tiny tilted lips. No dreams yet. No notion of loss or grief or loneliness. And Leia thought, as she sank into her own perfect sleep on Han's shoulder, that every need is a sweetness, when it is sure to be met.


	75. Chapter 75

July 12, 1959. When Han and Leia brought their newborn daughter home, she still had no name.

They didn't duel or joke about it, anymore: Leia no longer consulted her books and Han no longer teased her with apple variations. They were both smitten into inaction. How could they saddle this perfect creature with a name? A crude earthly name? _Gasp!_ If Leia and Han's friends hadn't loved the young parents and their newborn so much, they could have become exasperated with their lovelorn paralysis.

"What a cutie," Lando had said, in the larger room Leia and the baby were moved to. He grinned at the tiny human in Chewie's huge arms, Chewie rumbling some wordless lullaby. Han and Lando sat on either side of their old friend, each on one arm of the upholstered chair. Lando reached to feather-tap the pert nose the child had—thankfully, Lando thought—inherited from her mother.

"She's not _cute,_ " her father spluttered, hovering at Chewie's shoulder, his brows knitting in actual vexation. A pointer finger prodded Lando's already-dimpled cheek. "She is an _angel._ "

Affably, Lando nodded, chewing one of the delicately tinted marzipan robins Annie had made especially to celebrate Baby Solo. Willa had suggested he bring twelve boxes of Annie's assorted sweets for the nurses, and he was now the most popular person in the history of the Amidala wing. He reached behind Chewie's back to clap Han's shoulder. "She sure is, man."

Sitting on the bed braiding Leia's hair, Shara exchanged a look with Kes, sympathetic and amused. Their own perfect baby was now a wavy-headed toddler balanced on his father's hip, chattering at things out the window. Poe was sunny and clever, a terrific charmer, and his parents were devoted to him beyond measure. But at two-and-a-half? They no longer thought of him as an angel. They were just thrilled when he chose to wear trousers.

It was Leia who gave up on the naming first. Well, not _gave up_ —surrender was not in her nature, even pale and recovering from her difficult labor. She simply conceded that she and Han were not best suited for the task. Organa was to be the baby's middle name; Leia was proud of it, and Han liked it too. But he flatly vetoed Jaina when Leia hesitantly suggested it. Typically, he hadn't been able to articulate why. It was a heavy name, Han finally said. Too heavy for their baby. Leia understood. She felt the same way about Breha and Padmé.

But a galaxy of choices remained. To name their child felt like gazing into space, a feeling of mingled infinity and reduction; they couldn't pick a focus from all the dazzling possibilities. And there was only one person that could do that. Only one person who had the sensibility, who would take it seriously but not dourly. Who had the creative imagination but also the grounding in Leia and Han's personal histories.

The night before they were to bring the baby home, Leia voiced her idea to Han just before he was kicked out of the hospital at the close of visiting hours, which he'd already been caught flouting twice. Settling the baby back into her arms, Han agreed with such surprising speed that Leia knew, instinctively, that it was right.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Leia held Luke back with her on the sunlit porch, letting Han go into the cool, dim cabin with the baby. She lowered herself onto the cedar bench and toed off her shoes, sighing to feel the summer heat of the planks seep into her sore feet. Luke perched beside her. They could hear Han through the screen door, his deep voice filled with enthusiasm as he introduced his daughter to her home.

"So that's a TV. More Uncle Chewie's thing...but your mama, she's gotta keep up with the news, see. For her work." The unmistakable pride in Han's voice made Luke smile. Leia turned her tired, joyful eyes to his. Exhaled, as though at a job well finished.

"I knew you would be all right," Luke said, touching her wrist.

"No, that's...not it," Leia responded, in a way that wryly said the job was just beginning, while also acknowledging their own connection, and her own grappling with maternal history. But she was no longer defensive that her fear had existed. Leia took Luke's hand in hers. "Han and I—"

"Nice stairs, huh?" Han's voice came again, gently boastful. "I made those. Your mama had a ladder." The baby squeaked. "Yeah, I couldn't believe it either..."

He moved off, farther into the house, and they could no longer make out exactly what Han was saying, just the frequent warm rumble.

"Luke. We want you to name the baby."

Luke blinked. Opened his mouth. But from inside, a high, piercing, outraged cry. "Uh, Leia?" Han called. "I think it's the hungry one. Yeah? It sounds like the hungry one."

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Han and Leia's home was cool and calm in the early evening, when Luke entered. When he'd left it had been chaos, the baby furious, her face red and warm as the Brandywine tomatoes outside. Blindly gumming her father's shoulder as Leia, intent and earnest, unbuttoned the front of her dress. Quietly, Luke left.

He'd hiked up through the land he now owned. Through the woods where they hadn't died to the plot where Han promised Luke's own cabin would someday stand, when Luke was ready. Then he hiked farther, to the Kenobi orchard. He'd sensed his father, just a flicker, in the set of rightness of his fingers on his pencil as he sketched an apple. And he'd seen Ben and Breha in what was now Chewie's garden, its balance between beauty and rigor. Padmé when he closed his eyes and thought of his sister's incisive, intelligent goodness. Bail Organa there in her too, in the vastness and power of Leia's love for her husband and their new daughter.

Now, in the kitchen, Luke took one of Chewie's casseroles from the freezer, put it into the oven, set the heat and timer. Then he went up the mellow cedar stairs. He smiled at the sight of the small family, all sprawled together in the big iron bed, in the soft white noise and breeze of the fan. Han sat up against the bedstead, Leia asleep like a rock wrapped in one of his long arms, his hand cradling her head in place on his chest so it did not loll off. The baby, bundled in a whisper of blanket that Dottie had knitted, nestled in the crook of Han's other arm.

Han glanced up from the baby as Luke quietly stepped into the space. Even with his arms so occupied, he managed to point a stern finger. " _Not_ Pablo."

Luke chuckled, standing next to the bed, watching Han press his lips to his daughter's furze of russet hair. "You're too pretty to be a Pablo, baby. Yes, you are. Prettier'n one of his pictures, too." Han murmured, tracing his nose against the baby's cheek before yielding her to her uncle. The sleeping baby was warm and compact in Luke's embrace as he gingerly settled in the rocking chair next to the bed, beside the window.

He could tell Han that Picasso's work wasn't really known for its prettiness, but Luke held his tongue. Studying the face of this exhausted, overjoyed new father—his dear friend, his brother—Luke grew thoughtful. If anyone he knew was like something out of Picasso's vision, it was _Han:_ scarred, asymmetrical, dynamic, gutsy, vivid, brash; an energy unmistakably original, and itself.

As ruthless, too. But, as he watched Han stroke Leia's loose hair, green eyes gazing down at her, Luke saw major changes from the man he'd met just over three years ago. Han's expression was so rapt and tender, so overwhelmed, that Luke almost couldn't recognize the cocky, selfish man who'd once picked Luke up alongside the road. He looked so...soft, holding his sleeping wife, who he'd demanded a reward to rescue. Luke understood Han always would retain his childhood vigilance, a certain cynicism, his capacity for protective warfare—especially now—but there was no embitterment left. Just peace, Luke thought as he watched Han kiss Leia's smooth forehead: peace, and radical happiness. The once-mercenary's face was suffused with such radiance, so much unchecked light, that Luke felt he was peeking through a window into Han Solo's soul.

The baby in Luke's arms wriggled awake, one arm flailing from its wrapping. Lavender evening played through the screened window, over her face, as she looked up at her uncle. She had her mother's nose and her father's full, tilted lips. Her eyes were huge and thickly lashed as Leia's, still a dark newborn blue, but Luke thought he saw Han's kaleidoscopic color emerging, like the first ring on a sapling, from her pupils. Terrifyingly, her chin embodied the stubbornness of _each_ parent. All of these endearingly known contributions, yet her face was her own, her own self there in it. Luke smiled at the random ways her hand waved, out of her control, how stunned she was when it appeared. He felt his own eyes sting, to think of his mother who never knew her children like this, to think of Ben on a long-ago flight. Of Breha's lonely, annihilating loss. But no. A baby should not have the past imposed on her first days of life.

Luke looked away from her sweet face—out the real window, over the real world. He looked over the world that now welcomed and held this new child, the child of this pair he loved so much, here to claim her own share of Luke Skywalker's heart.

 _A name._

What would Yoda say? _Look around, you must._ Here was the world Ben had shown him, the land where he and Breha and Padmé had played and painted, that Ben and Bail, then Leia, had fought to preserve. Here was the home Han worked constantly to improve. Here were the lake, the woods; water and firs, flowers, fruits; air so clean and pure it seemed to shimmer. The setting to receive this baby girl. All of it alive, all of it hers.

And this vital beauty was evidence, to Luke, of a benevolent, creative force in the world, in which he'd always believed: a governing touch that brought everyone together in this life. The force that had gathered him and Leia and Han in shared time and space, and had marked these two as meant for one another forever. The force that had somehow, Luke knew, sparked and brought this baby through.

That force in the universe, there was a word for it.

Luke got slowly up so as not to disturb the baby, bringing her back to her father. After settling her in Han's forearm Luke almost formally bowed his head, stepped back from the bed, left the little family space on their raft. "Grace," Luke said. "Her name is Grace."

Stricken, Han looked up, and Luke caught the change of his remarkable eyes: soft green to clear amber ale. " _Yeah_ , Luke. Yes." He stared at Luke a long moment before he turned to Leia, his throat working. "Grace," Han confided into Leia's hair, his voice gravelly and hushed, and fiercely kissed her sleeping head.

He looked back to the baby. "Grace." Han said again, to his daughter, and now his voice carried its male power. As though in answer the baby kicked her feet, curled long fingers around one of her father's. And like a comet Han's rare, blinding smile burst across his face for Grace Solo, forcing his eyes into crescents so narrow they nearly hid their water.

"Get your reward, Han?" Luke asked, past the lump in his throat.

"Kid," Han looked at Luke again. "I'm thinking I owe _you_ one."


End file.
